our future will be a bright one
by Asradiantasthesun
Summary: 'she's always chasing after him and he always remains out of her reach in his last minutes; she never gets to stand by his side and she never gets to say a proper goodbye, as he rushes towards his death like he rushes for everything else – carelessly and eagerly, head-on. Leaving her behind.' / an eremika soulmates through time modern au
1. COUP DE FOUNDRE

COUP DE FOUNDRE ( noun.)

FRENCH, literally: lightning strike, it can be applied to falling in love at first sight, fast and violently

* * *

 _at last, hello, you've opened your eyes_

 _but why won't you even look at me, what's wrong?_

 _you angrily tell me I'm late_

 _well, I'm sorry, but I ran the fastest I can_

 _my heart got here before my body could even make it_

\- RADWIMPS - _Zen Zen Zense_

* * *

(he's just about to catch her when she falls, slips through his fingers in a heartbeat, in a fraction of a second in-between breath; painfully calm and painfully beautiful, even after she is no more. Always one before her time, just as he's always late to say things he should've said, late to see what he had stood in front of his very own eyes.

she's always chasing after him and he always remains out of her reach in his last minutes; she never gets to stand by his side and she never gets to say a proper goodbye, as he rushes towards his death like he rushes for everything else – carelessly and eagerly, head-on. Leaving her behind. )

….

Like everyone else, they meet by accident; pass each other on a crowded street, on Friday evening, with sky dark and cold chilling them to the bone. And at first, they don't even realize what has just happened, because books promised something different, parents warned them of something else. They both expected a violent phenomenon that would rip them into pieces; a lightning strike through her veins, thunderstorms inside his head, heavy rain in the moment when they would share the same air.

Instead, this brown haired boy passes her and Mikasa feels summer evening in early July; setting sun caressing her skin as she sits on the wooden porch of her grandparents' house, the smell of honeysuckle in the air, strawberry seeds between her teeth and crickets singing on the meadows.

Instead, this raven-haired girl passes him and Eren feels spring morning; waking up at sunrise with birds chirping cheerfully outside, old willow tree in his backyard sprouting fresh green leaves, the cold bite of the shower and a whole new, untainted day yet to be lived spread in front of him.

It's not painful. It does not hurt. But it hits nevertheless, all those feeling both alien and familiar. The pair of them makes a few more steps before stopping in their respective tracks; she shivers, he gasps.

It feels- it feels as if they suddenly have two beating fast hearts instead of one, two hearts trashing in one rib cage.

When they turn around to look at each other, they do it like people on the streets, when they feel a delicious smell of pastries from bakery's open door; with cheeks flushed and awe and amazement in their eyes wide open, with fresh snow making a strange squeaking sound underneath their boots.

And then they lock eyes; the girl with a long braid of dark hair meticulously pinned around her head and the boy with a red scarf wrapped carelessly around his neck. And every movie, every song, every romance movie turns out to be right, because as green meets gray, people around them stop half-movement, snowflakes halt frozen on their way to the ground, the time itself seems to have forgotten how to fly.

 _It's not easy, sharing a soul with someone_ – said their elders.- _This pain of the first meeting of your destined is not the last one._

But Mikasa doesn't feel any pain as she's looking into those green, _green eyes, oh dear god how, they are so green, she dreamed him, dreamed about him and his eyes, how could've she forgotten?_

And all Eren can think of is _beautiful, beautiful, beautiful_ , each part of her so beautiful, each movement graceful, the simple surprised arch of her eyebrows exquisite; this diamond of a woman that he feels he already knows better than he knows himself.

It all comes back to them in a flow of emotions, of sensations; the dreams, the longing, this phantom presence they felt all their lives without realizing that.

In the middle of a snowstorm, two hands reach for each other simultaneously, fingers brushing –

And that's when the lightning strikes.

…

 _I missed you, I missed you, I missed you so bad_

 _So that's what they meant by pain.-_ hazily thinks Mikasa, dazed, lost in the ocean of green. Sadness and happiness hit her like a tsunami wave, flooding her, pushing the air from her lungs. The ache of separation, of _how could I live my life without you for all those years, for I cannot imagine not touching you now that I had –_ mixed up with the pure, unfiltered happiness as his entwines his fingers with hers. Mikasa gasps, basking in this warmth, overwhelmed with the feeling of contentment incomparable to anything she has ever felt. At the back of her mind, she wonders why she's not ashamed of her reactions; why she doesn't try to hide her amazement, be more composed. But why would she do that? The current of his emotions flows through her veins like a blood, she feels the buzzing underneath his skin. He's bolder than her, more curious; while she's content with standing still and looking at him, his fingers travel upwards, caressing her palm, her wrist, leaving a trail of blazing fire on her skin. It's not even warm anymore, she feels hot inside as if she was burning alive.

She wonders if she should worry about that.

Eren can't stop touching her. She has small, pale hands, nails meticulously manicured, silver ring on the little finger of her left hand. His fingers trail along the blue-greenish veins of her naked wrists; the tips of her fingers are red and somewhere, in the most down to earth part of his brain, he thinks they should both were goddamn gloves in this weather.

But why should he wear gloves, when it's so hot, he's almost boiling?

She's silently standing in front of him and he still thinks she'll disappear any second now, even though he keeps a firm grip both on both of her hands. He worries that the storm will take her away, that the snow will erase her footprints; that she'll be gone and he'll be all alone once again. And this thought hurts him, hurts him deep to the bone and so, before he can even think about it, his hands lock around her wrists.

It's all new and so incredibly fresh, this bond between them burning white and pulsing like an open wound but she must've sensed his discomfort from the way he grabbed her, because her expression turns from awe-struck to soothing; she gently wraps her fingers around his wrists, her thumb circling on his skin - the caress that almost stops his heart's beating altogether.

"What's your name?" he asks and he almost doesn't recognize his own voice; it's raspy and desperate and he nearly laughs at the irony of a situation. He'd know her anywhere, blind and deaf and lost and still, he knows nothing about her at all.

"Mikasa" she answers, so quietly that the wind nearly steals her voice away before it can reach his ears. "My name is Mikasa."

Mi-ka-sa

"My name is Eren." there's a laughter in this introduction, lightness and less strain than before. "Guess I finally found you, huh?"

She can only laugh back at that. Laugh, because while the tension between them turns so unbearable that she's half a second away from letting go of his hands, she somehow wants to move _closer_. Because she wants to feel his arms wrapped around her waist, wants to bury her fingers in his shaggy mop of brown hair, wants to lean up so that the tips of their noses would touch. Laugh, because she has never felt so light, so alive and she knows for an undeniable fact that it's all new to him too.

His smile is fond. Gentle is the way he slowly, carefully, unwinds her fingers from around her wrists, but they both hiss in pain and the sudden loss of contact. The burning warmth is replaced by biting cold and all in them screams to not let go.

They know the standard procedure of the first meeting - there is more than one and it's all up to them. Sometimes destined couples give in to the pull straight away, deciding that they have a whole life for talking and disappearing from work and social life for days until they emerge with hair messed up and hearts full, so in love it hurts to look at them. Sometimes they make an effort to take things slow, gradually; get to know each other on a detailed level, untangle the tangled-up net of emotions, resist the temptation of _just touching_ in order to sort out how they fit in each other's lives first. And sometimes they just try to completely brush it off, discard the bond given to them so effortlessly and try to play pretend that that's a normal relationship; go to dates and chill out in larger groups before they take this one big final step.

Neither of those options feels right to Mikasa and Eren; she has already completely abandoned any notion of exchanging numbers and going home as if nothing happened. He, on the other hand, can't deal with the itch in his bones, pull that urges him forward to touch her just one more time. All of him is pushing him closer to Mikasa, but then he glances at her; at her shining gray opals for eyes, and the shade of rose painted on her cheeks by the frost.

He doesn't want to fuck it up.

Not now, not with this girl. He can't bear the thought of simply leaving, not now that he finally found her, but if she wants to leave and brush it under the rug, he won't stop her.

( Carla's voice rings clear in his ears _oh my boy, this urge to put this person before yourself - you'd think that's something good, but it is why it all ends badly more often than not.)_

Thankfully, she doesn't seem to want to go either; she opens her mouth as if to say something and the abruptly closes it, crimson flooding her face as she tears her gaze from his face to stare at her shoes. Curiously, Eren probes the string of emotions between them; and as Mikasa's feelings echo back to him, he almost jumps out of his skin. It's fuzzy and undefined, but undeniable at the same time – need burns inside her, need and happiness, and a healthy dose of fear, and – yes. She's just as reluctant as he is to let go. He resists the urge to fist pump in a triumph.

She shivers as the cold wind blows right in her face and for a moment he is transfixed by the way the loose streaks of her hair dance around her face, and then, just as he's about to propose to find some place warm, she blurts out:

" My apartment is near."

Her face twists into a horrified expression and he fights himself so as not to laugh. Because, no matter all the grace and elegance she possesses, she is just incredibly _cute_ like that; stumbling on her feet and flustered, so new to all of this. However, she seems so incredibly irritated with herself, that he concludes that she must act differently in normal circumstances, far more stoic and composed. _If that's so, they'll make quite a pair._

His stomach makes a somersault at that though and he can't help but grin.

He leans down so that their faces are at the same level and moves closer; the sting of heat returns with the force twice as great as before as he brushes the stray hair from her face.

" Can I come over, then?" he asks quietly, voice warm and rich as honey.

She nods, wordlessly, drunk in his touch, struggling to pull herself together.

His grin turns into a smile and before she can notice, he unwraps the scarf from his neck and loops it around hers.

" I know you said it's near, but you look terribly cold." he says by the world of explaining, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck and blushing under her surprised gaze.

And so, she just has to smile at that.

* * *

So, you made it to the end of chapter one. Congrats! I hope you enjoyed it and that you're intrigued enough by the premise to come back for the next part of this story. I'm not a native English speaker, so I apologize for all the tiny errors that might appear here and there. HUGE thanks to Lana ( marauders-groupie) for being the best beta and support group ever, I love you babe 3 ( also, if you're by any chance in the 100 fandom, you should totally check out her fics, they are simply magical).

If you liked this chapter, please leave me kudos or comments - they give me an actual motivation to continue with this story, which I very much need. Next part will be up next week ;)


	2. GIGIL

CHAPTER TWO: GIGIL

GIGIL

FILIPINO, a physical response – like trembling or blushing – to the situation that overwhelms your self-control

* * *

 _i used to wish upon the stars, the toys I once adored_

 _forgotten now, are rolling 'round the corners of the floor_

 _finally, my dreams have counted up to one hundred today_

 _someday, I'll trade them all for just this very one_

 _it's really not bad trying something new every once in a while_

 _especially if I can do it with you by my side_

 _RADWIMPS - Nandenomaya_

* * *

Destined. Promised. Twin flames. Joined souls.

Soulmates.

So many names for the one phenomenon that goes beyond human understanding and rational thought; wild force, exhilarating and powerful like a tornado. A seed of magic planted in the solid ground of reality.

The scientists, of course, try to rationalize it. _It's a simple thing, basically_ , they say. If the pair of souls was born and reborn time and time again near each other if two people have met and fallen in love and shared lives together multiple times, if, against all laws of probability, they found themselves through time and space, it just has to create a bond. A bond that becomes stronger and stronger each time they have to part ways – a bond that, after centuries, transforms from something alike to spiritual connection into a physical pull. As simple and as complex as that.

But this explanation doesn't cover everything and certainly doesn't stay true to the magic of it all. Legends and stories fill in the gaps in scientific logic ; mothers tell their kids that the pain of the first meeting is the pain of all the times they had to say goodbye to each other, school children whisper and giggle about how the heat of touch is all the passion and desire soulmates had for each other in all their lives. Not everyone is blessed like that, but those that are, add even more to the whole mystery; watching a pair of bonded soulmates is a strange experience, as they always seem to exist in a different universe, in their shared bubble build on secret smiles and subtle touches.

As a kid, Eren always wondered; will he be able to read someone's mind? How is it possible, to just meet someone and bam! they're yours forever? Holy shit, will they share thoughts, will they talk to each other without opening their mouths?

He would spend hours playing in the summer heat with his best friend Armin and just talk about it. They would imagine a thousand of possible "first meeting" scenarios per minute, wondering how it would look like, feel like. Armin would bring his parents' heavy scientific books and read them to Eren, patiently explaining all the complicated terminology and then they would tell each other fairy tales, rationality and magic and wonder blending into one.

It all sounded just so cool and unimaginable, no matter how many times his mother tried to cool down his enthusiasm.

"It's not all sunshine," she warned him, time and time again as soon as he started babbling about wanting to meet them _now._ " It's not as easy as it sounds. This desire to protect someone, to be by somebody's side, this can be more destructive than anything else in the world. "

And of course, he didn't listen. Why would he?

He couldn't wait to meet them. He couldn't wait to get to know them. He couldn't wait to remember their past lives.

Mikasa, on the other hand, never quite believed in the notion of soulmates, no matter her having one. It was… bizarre. And she couldn't understand why somebody would want that. Surely, normal relationships aren't anything worse or less. Where is privacy, where is a place for little, intimate secrets when the other person can read your emotions like a book wide open?

Around the age of eight, the perspective started to scare the shit out of her.

One evening, perched up on a kitchen stool, she quietly asked her father how she can check if she even has a soulmate and he ruffled her hair affectionately and told her there's no way to do that, that that's something you don't even know you've lost until you've found it. That some people are born with this ache, but it's so constant that they become numb to it and just simply live their lives like everyone. That they are not aware that they're drenched in gasoline until they cross eyes with that other person and touch their skin and catch on fire.

"Why eyes?" she asked then, even diligent, and he kneeled down in front of her.

"The eyes are a door to your soul," he told her. "The skin turns lighter or darker, freckles and birthmarks disappear and rearrange. Sex changes, hair becomes blonde as the sun or dark as the night. Even your character transforms, your little quirks and interests and the way you talk. But eyes? Those never change. At least that's what I heard."

And his face darkened a bit and she is reminded that he and her mother were not destined, that he had no memory of any previous lives, that he didn't remember eyes of any other woman or man from his past. And so she wrapped her arms around his neck to cheer him up but the anger burned in her stomach; why did he long for a soulmate? Wasn't her Ma enough? How was his life somehow lackluster because he was not cursed with burning in pain every time he touched his wife?

And so Mikasa decided, right there and then that she would never have a soulmate. Period.

…

The reality, of course, caught her off-guard, her usual self-control gone and forgotten. Where is her unflinching gaze and calm demeanor when she needs it? Where are her silent goals not to fall prey to the whole soulmates nonsense, fall in love in a normal way, stay Just Mikasa, without any added past lives and pain and a person that would suddenly appear in her life and would expect to stay in it forever?

Beside him, she can hardly walk straight. The whole world is spinning in front of her eyes, she feels as if she had a dangerously high fever and she's afraid she may not be able to find a way to the apartment in which she's been living for the past three years. His mere presence is just intoxicating; this physical pull towards him, pain piercing through her every time she as much as steal a glance at him.

This want.

But before she can dive head first into the ocean of shame, she starts to wonder, if all those strange feelings are really hers. As the pair of them quietly makes their way through the streets, she begins untangling them; slowly and methodically, ignoring her racing heart and sweaty palms.

Wait. Stop. This is mine. And this is not.

With a wave of surprise, she realizes that although the boy beside her – the one that keeps staring at her and can't stop smiling, the one that not only trips over his feet but he also skips cheerfully every few steps – this boy wants her too. Just as badly as she does. That she makes him dizzy, that she takes his breath away. He leans closer and closer to her side, and he seems to do it unconsciously. The warmth simply radiates from him; all the enthusiasm and curiosity. Yes, he doesn't seem half as troubled and lost as she does, probably, she concludes, because he's a way more adventurous person than she is, but _make no mistake, Mikasa; he may be the smoother one in this situation, but it doesn't mean he doesn't feel the same things you do._

Because he does. She knows it. Eren's desire burns right along hers and somehow, instead of making her even more flustered, it comforts her somehow.

Her place really is near and soon enough they leave the freezing wind outside and the matching rhythm of their steps echoes on the empty staircase of her apartment building; Eren steals glances at brick walls and peeling paint, and the obvious lack of elevator. He's mostly just surprised; Mikasa, in her nice black coat and leather boots looks more like someone living in one of those modern, glass-and-steel skyscrapers in the center, rather than downtown, in a building that has probably seen a huge chunk of last century.

They climb ten floors in silence interrupted only by Eren's silent wheezing every few seconds, at which Mikasa hides her smile under the scarf.

"Well, no shit you're so fit, " he says when they reach the top of the staircase. He sounds slightly winded and he's clutching on the railing, sending her a grin.

"How do you know if I'm fit?" She turns her back on him, fiddling with keys and fighting blush.

He's about to say something along the lines of: "Because you just went all the way up like it was nothing" but she adds:

"You haven't even seen me without these clothes on."

' _Yet'_ hangs in the dead silence that follows, the single word so heavy that it almost turns into a physical being, into a third person standing in between them.

She yelps – and his heart skips because _how adorable_ – and covers her mouth with both hands, keys slipping from her fingers and falling on the floor. And he just clutches on the railing even tighter and simply bursts into laughter, because how could he not?

"For a moment you got me there, that was smooth, I'll give you that," he manages to utter.

"Oh my god," she gasps, leaning her forehead against the wood of the doors. "Oh my god. It wasn't supposed to sound like that. "

His fit of laughter lasts for a few more minutes before he senses some kind of uncomfortable buzzing under his skin; it's like an itch, only more burning and unpleasant. He raises his head up to look at Mikasa and realizes that she's still standing frozen with her face pressed to the door, slightly flinching each time she hears him laugh.

Oh god, she's really not the joking type, is she?

"Oi, Mikasa," he says quietly, straightening up and taking a few steps closer to her. "Hey, I get what you meant, okay? Don't get all worked up about it. "

Before his brain can process his actions, he places a hand in-between her shoulder blades, his fingers gently patting her back.

She shivers slightly underneath his touch and all the blood in his body seems to flood his brain and buzz in his head.

"Sorry," comes her muffled response. "I don't know – how to deal with all of this."

When she turns around to face him, she is greeted by the sight of his loop-sided grin.

"That actually makes two of us, you know?"

She does, actually, know this. Under the layer of good humor, she can sense the nervousness in him; can see it in the way he licks his lips and scratches the back of his neck every few seconds. And so she nods with a small smile dancing on her lips.

"Let's go and warm up then, okay?"

Her apartment is small and so disgustingly clean that he cannot help but feel ashamed when he thinks about his own flat; Armin's books and notes thrown haphazardly on the kitchen table, Jean's unreal amount of hair products taking every free inch of space in the bathroom and his - well – _stuff_ pretty much everywhere.

Mikasa's place has none of that. The walls are all painted white and there's not a single smudge on the cream-colored carpet laying on the floor, nor a wrinkle on the curtains obscuring the window. It should feel clinical and cold, this overwhelming sea of whiteness, but it doesn't; somehow, despite being so pristine, the apartment feels strangely intimate.

It's clearly a space that she spends much time in and there are traces of this domesticity everywhere he looks – in a neat row of cacti on the shelf by the window, in a collection of beautiful, black-and-white photographs adorning the walls, in a bunch of chipped mugs by the kitchen sink and in a warm-looking blanket cocoon in the armchair.

"You want something to drink, maybe?" Mikasa asks politely, gently setting his red scarf on the shelf by the door, her other hand outstretched as she waits patiently for him to hand her his jacket.

He flinches, realizing he has spent the last few minutes standing in the middle of her living room and gawking, leaving traces of melting snow all over her floor.

"I- um, sure, sorry. " He tugs on the zipper sloppily, eyeing with horror the ever-growing pool of dirty snow water near his boots. "Shit, I'm so sorry, let me mop this up, wow, you have it so clean in here, I just- sorry -"

Suddenly, he hears a snort and looks up at her and- is she smirking?

Sure, it's subtle and barely-there (seems she has regained some control over her facial expressions) but still, the smirk is there and what's more, he can feel her amusement across the bond.

"Forgive me." She sends him a small grin. "You looked so horrified. Don't worry, let me put on a kettle for some tea and we'll clean it up."

She hesitantly reaches out and pats his shoulder, her eyes sparkling with humor.

Somewhere, on the back of his mind, he realizes that's the first time she initiated the contact between them, but most of his brain is basking in the feeling of her fingers touching his skin through the thin material of his shirt.

The warmth. _The warmth._

He's sinking in it, bathing in it almost; he probably looks like a goddamn idiot staring at her with the goofiest smile and puppy eyes but he just fucking can't help himself.

Mikasa unlaces her boots and puts them by door; she orders him to do the same and, as Eren watches her rummaging through the kitchen (a braided crown of black tresses slightly undone; the straight line of her spine underneath her blouse as she leans down; her long, long legs gracefully moving her from one place to another) he feels something blooming in his chest; something new and hesitant and small, but maybe even more powerful than a lightning strike on the street half an hour ago.

* * *

So, I hope you liked this chapter ;). The story is unraveling a bit... slowly at this point and I'm aware of that, but don't worry; there is definitely more action on the horizon for these two. If you enjoyed the story so far, please leave me a comment/kudos, so I'll know it; I also welcome all the suggestions, if you have any. See you next week!


	3. MAMIHLAPINATAPEI

MAMIHLAPINATAPEI

YAGHAN LANGUAGE OF TIERRA DEL FUEGO

1) A wordless, yet meaningful look between two people who both desire to initiate something, but both are too scared to initiate look across the table when two people are sharing an unspoken but private moment. When each knows the other understands and is in agreement with what is being expressed. An expressive and meaningful silence.

2) That look across the table when two people are sharing an unspoken but private moment. When each knows the other understands and is in agreement with what is being expressed. An expressive and meaningful silence.

 _finally, the time has come_

 _everything up till today was a prologue_

 _skimming through the days of old,_

 _it's my turn to bear the load_

 _my experience and my skill_

 _and all the courage I had let start to mildew_

 _at an unprecedented speed I will_

 _dive right into you._

\- RADWIMPS, _Sparkle_

It's been a few hours and it's completely dark outside now, which they hardly notice as their conversation flows easily like a mountain stream, switching from one topic to another. Surprisingly, they're not trading facts and personal histories, but rather opinions, all joking around and getting in heated arguments over their favorite tv show characters, with their faces colored in blush and in a warm glow of the kitchen light.

Above the cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream, extra marshmallows and a spoon of cinnamon on top for good measure, Eren waves his hands excitedly, in the middle of telling a very long and complex story involving ten years old him, his best friend and a bucket full of earthworms. Mikasa must admit she has long lost track of the tale, but she doesn't particularly mind that; Eren may not be the best storyteller ( and then I like, grabbed his hand – she was kinda, uhm, you know – like, you know - LITERALLY ) but he's definitely an engaging one.

Besides, she has to admit that no matter how interesting his story might be, she would rather just watch him anyway. What he does gives her a way better idea of who he is than his words do.

And he's.. non-stop. Constantly in motion. Twitching his leg, as if he was in a hurry, biting on his lip, changing a position every few seconds. His hands never simply rest on her dinner table or stay wrapped around his mug, no; his fingers are tapping on the wood, scratching his nose and the back of his neck, ruffling his hair.

And how she aches to do just so. To reach out her hand above their mugs, to touch this boy sitting across the table. Her fingers itch as if someone was pricking their tips with needles - just to map the features of his face, to trail the slope of his nose and the arches of his brows, and jaw, and cheekbones. To check if his lips are really as chapped as they look.

To get lost in those beautiful, breathtakingly green eyes.

She toys with those ideas, plays the scenarios in her head, so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she almost doesn't catch it when he stops talking.

"… and that's how we were basically banned from visiting aunt Flora ever again. Hmm, Mikasa? You're with me?"

His brows furrow and he's looking at her, concern vivid in his features and she perks up at that, straightening her back so abruptly that she can hear her spine cracking.

"Yes! Of course." She twirls the spoon in the remains of black lemon tea in her mug, avoiding his scrutinizing gaze. But she still feels that; his disappointment filling her lungs with unpleasant, acidy smell.

 _Oh no_. – her heart clenches.- _Oh no, no._

"Sorry, Eren," she says, soft and soothing. "I get lost a bit. But from what I did catch -" – it's like in her head; she can feel smooth wood underneath her fingertips and then the roughened skin of his palms as she reaches out her hand across the table. " – is that you should never ask me for childhood stories. Mine are all boring. I never did anything even remotely close to throwing a whole jar of worms into my relatives' Christmas pudding ."

He huffs in amusement, letting her caress his hand for a moment before wrapping his fingers around hers.

"In my defense, the stuff was so disgusting that the taste might've actually improved with this extra meat in it. " Their eyes lock and something wild gleams in his as he raises her hand up and brushes her knuckles with his lips.

She gasps; can't help that. It's like an electric shock, the one that leaves her whole skin tingling and her cheeks blushing.

"I like that – hand holding, I mean," he admits quietly, turning his gaze away to stare at his mug. The tips of his ears are slightly redder than they were in the freezing cold outside and as soon as she notices it, she feels a wave of affection crashing over her.

And this makes her just a little bit bolder.

She pulls her hand from his grasp and just – does it. No thinking, zero overanalyzing. Pure instinct. This seems to work best with Eren, so that's what she's gonna do.

Her caress is so delicate that it's almost phantom, but the heat with which her palm burns his cheek is undeniable and he almost groans at that; it's almost as if he was melting in her touch, transfixed by the sight of her grey eyes turned black and those rosy lips parting. She looks dazed; she feels dazed and he is so out of his mind that he's not sure that he's not imagining the whole thing.

"And I had spent the whole evening wanting to do just that," Mikasa confesses, her whisper faint but ringing clear in his ears.

She's about to back off - the gleam slowly dies in her eyes and some kind of second-thought embarrassment is clearly catching up to her – but he covers her hand with his, keeping it placed on his cheek.

"Don't," he lets through gritted teeth. "Don't stop."

And it washes over her; a tidal wave of warmth and amazement and desire, it all messes up in her head, knocks the ground from underneath her feet. Her toes curl.

"Okay."

…

She doesn't know how they ended up on the couch, but she decides that she will wonder about it later.

'Cause Eren is sitting right in front of her - so close, no longer across the table, but close enough that their knees touch – he is sitting right in front of her, his eyes closed, head thrown back and breath heavy, and she trails her fingers on his face, just as she imagined. He's so beautiful; the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the contrast of her milky complexion again his dark, his hair so soft when she gently combs through them.

She thinks they would make a nice painting, positioned like that; her, kneeling on the couch and raising her hips up to be closer to him, her pupils blown wide and dark. Eren, gasping for breath underneath her touch, lips wet and the top buttons of his shirt undone. The yellow light of the lamp basking the whole scene in a golden glow, turning her white living room into the honey-colored inside of a beehive, the air thick with heat and wonder and ache.

He keeps his hands firmly placed on his thighs, but then her nails lightly scratch his scalp and before she can notice, he puts them on her waist, spreads them from her hipbones to the edges of her ribcage. His grip is firm, but not bruising; it leaves her dizzy anyway.

Eren's stupid with want.

On the one hand, a quiet, rational voice at the back of his head ( one that sounds suspiciously like Armin) urges him to take it slow, as he was supposed to. On the other, he can't, like, for a life, remember why should he take it slow and a much bigger and louder part of his brain is currently out of order, as Mikasa slowly lifts her hands and lets him pull up her thin, grey sweater and then throw it on the floor.

And he looks at her, simply can't stop looking; all this skin suddenly at display, the graceful line of her neck and the hollow of her throat, arches of her collarbones and valleys of her breasts rising up and falling down with each breath, her taut stomach- – holy shit, she has better abs than he can ever hope to have.

He could swear that he never wanted anything in his life as much as he wants to touch her now.

To kiss her now.

But, as he leans closer, something sharp and cold pierces through him; she opens up her mouth to say something, but he is already backing away from her, her fear tasting like metal on his tongue.

As Mikasa leans her head down in shame, blush traveling down from her cheeks to her chest, he feels like a total, complete, unredeemable asshole.

 _What did I tell you about not fucking it up with this girl, Jaeger?_

 _Fucking fuck._

"I'm not-" _ready_ , she wants to say, but that's not exactly true and words got stuck in her throat. She somehow trusts this stranger with the most familiar eyes with her life. She doesn't know why she's suddenly feeling so scared, so ashamed. Why she has this overpowering need to push her want away and hide it somewhere in a box in a closet when she knows he feels the same want for her. Why, as he leaned down to kiss her, she somehow felt rejected.

What she does know, is that in the moment he took her sweater off her, the heat from his touch evaporated from her skin, leaving her bare and shivering.

And afraid.

Her body locked up when he leaned closer, so quickly and abruptly that it left her confused and gave her a pulsing headache. A shift in a mood so swift and sharp that he felt it along her.

 _Is it an echo from the past? Is that how it feels like?_ She wonders, still staring at her knees and begging him to understand _. Is this because of how we parted the last time? I'm sorry, I don't know what is happening. I really wanted it. I'm sorry, don't leave._

She sends one wordless beg after another. She can see it, clear as day; Eren standing up, putting on his jacket and taking his scarf with him as he closes the door behind him. Taking his warmth, and his smile, and his green eyes away from her. It is an irrational thought but the one she can't shake off anyway. _Did you leave me just like that, sometime before?_

"Hey, Mikasa."

He sounds angry, he is angry; and she knows this in such a subconscious, impossible way. There's a flash, a hit and for a second or two she's out of her body, _he used to be angry at me all the time, once_.

And Eren, to his surprise, finds this anger in himself. This anger that doesn't even feel his entirely, which seems older than his body but as old as his soul.

 _An echo._

 _(It was the first thing one of his friends felt when she met her soulmate in this life; it came before pain and before warmth, and before a lightning strike and he was there when it happened. He saw it with his own two eyes; Ymir suddenly going dead silent in the middle of the sentence and stopping in the middle of a hallway. Her quiet gasp and then one of her hands raising slowly, almost hesitantly, up, to wave. She was so lost in this one moment, so completely disconnected with reality that Eren thinks the whole world could've ended and she wouldn't even bat an eyelash at that._

 _She looked so happy. She has never told him what she felt, but it must've been something really good; she had awe radiating from every millimeter of her body._

 _And a half a heartbeat later, a small figure appeared at the end of the hallway. A new student, in the middle of a tour through school, guided by the principal. Blonde and so fucking pretty that almost celestial, clad in a baby pink suspender dress and white, lacy stockings, she couldn't be more different from Ymir if she tried._

 _But she raised her head up, the same wonder in her sparkling blue eyes as in his friends' brown ones; she looked right at Ymir and smiled, and waved back.)_

He's not angry at Mikasa because this weird rage is not even directly connected with a situation; even if it was, he'd be angry at himself, but when he glances at her, her head is still down and her shoulders are shaking a little bit.

Nobody really thinks they used to be a bad person once and Eren is not an exception. He was sure that all of his past selves were – well, if not good people, then at least decent. He's nowhere close to perfection now; not with his carelessness, pettiness, and lack of empathy sometimes. He's can be a thick-skulled idiot and he knows it well, but he would never call himself intentionally cruel.

He would've never thought that he hurt his soulmate in the past so deeply, that the memory of this hurt is the first one that comes back to them.

 _Did my rage burn the world with you in it? How many scars on your soul spell out my name? I'm so, so sorry, baby. You deserve someone better to share your eternity with._

"My previous self was a douchebag, right?" he says and it sounds so hollow, even to himself. "That's probably how it was if you feel this way. "

He pauses, turns his head away from Mikasa because he swears to God, if he was to spend another minute looking at her hunched figure, he would cry. He weighs what he's going to say next in his head, trying to find the best words, to ease this echo of a pain of the past somehow.

Anger curls at the pit of his stomach, burning him in a way that is so different from the way Mikasa's touch makes him feel that it's a sensation straight out of another dimension. He pushes it away: _you don't belong here anymore._

"But I'm not like that, this time. I don't want to hurt you and I'm not leaving, unless you want me to do so," he continues quietly with such an honesty ringing in his voice that she raises her head up to look at him. "I don't want you to be afraid of me."

And as he says this, the ache disappears like a mist, like a bad dream evaporating immediately after you've awakened from it. Mikasa watches him, fumbling with the edge of his shirt and looking for the best way to console her and all there is in her is a simple tenderness, sweet as a morning dew.

"I'm not," she says before he can.

She tries to recall the feeling, her stomach turning at the unpleasant sensation, already turning into a fuzzy memory. "I don't think I ever was. I think … if anything... I was more afraid _for_ you. "

He chuckles, clearly surprised and this gives her a push to go on.

"Maybe you used to get in trouble all the time, act without thinking. Judging from all the stories you told me today, you're not much different now, right?"

This earns her an actual laugh on his part and she smiles at the sound. She loves it so much, this love seems to be hidden so deeply inside her that she wouldn't be able to tear it away even if she wanted to. Eren's laugh … it just makes her feel so safe.

So at home.

"So. You think I straight-up ran away from you to do something stupid and you were left afraid I won't come back?" he asks and although she somehow feels that's not the whole truth, she nods in confirmation.

"But we will have all the answers sooner or later. Maybe let's not dwell on that." Mikasa leans down to pick up her sweater and Eren can feel the tips of his ears burn again. Echo or not echo; he knows this girl for a few hours tops and he has already tried to undress her. Well – fucking –done. Doing his fucking best to be better than his asshole self was countless times before.

She puts the sweater on and he turns away, looking at the snowstorm behind the window. It must be even colder outside than when they met. The thought of coming back home becomes even more unpleasant than it was a moment ago. He eyes Mikasa silently, trying to stop himself from yawning, but it's so difficult; it's been such a long day.

And her apartment is so warm. And she looks so lovely. And he honestly just wants to lay by her side and bask in her glow like the sappy bastard he is at heart.

And, no matter how hard he tries to deny it, half of him is still quite convinced that their meeting is just some sort of a very vivid dream. That he'll say goodbye to her, freeze his ass off while going home and each step will be like stepping on knives as he moves away, not towards her. That he will realize that he has lost his keys (again) so he will have to ring the bell for half an hour before Armin emerges from his cocoon of blankets to open the door for him, blinking sleepily and asking where the hell he was.

And then Eren will take a shower and every drop of water will scream her name ( Mi-ka-sa, Mi-ka-sa ringing in his ears, pulsing in his ears, humming in his blood as if she was a part of him he had lost and didn't even realize it until now) and he will go to sleep haunted by the smell of her skin and then -

The next day he'll go to her apartment and find it empty or find out that it never existed in the first place. And he'll forever be left with this ache and longing, and a hunger he does not know how to satisfy.

He grimly waits for the shoe to drop, for Mikasa to politely show him the door ( maybe wrap his scarf for him, if he's particularly lucky and hand him her phone number without being asked to do so) but instead, she stands up abruptly and blushes slightly, tugging a stray strand of her behind her ear.

"C'mon," she says, reaching out a hand towards him. "This couch is too uncomfortable to sleep on it. "

 _Is she – isn't she? She isn't._ His mind is a mess. _Thank. Fucking. God. Bless. Yes._

He's so happy that she's not kicking him out, that the full implications of her words get to him with a delay.

If he's not sleeping on the couch… Well, where exactly is he sleeping?

He imagines Mikasa in the morning, all warm and sleepy with a messy ponytail, cuddling with him, drooling a little bit on his shirt and stealing all the sheets, and he immediately decides to stop thinking about this that instant, because, from this point, he'll be nothing but a fucking gentleman. Decided. Period.

"I'm not sleepy," he states stubbornly out of habit, although even a five-year-old would see through his lie, let alone a girl that can literally _feel his emotions._

"Uh-huh. Of course, you're not. That's why I have an urge to yawn," she snickers, pulling him off the couch by tugging on his sleeve. "I'll show you the bathroom, okay?"

…

She doesn't send him home.

Of course, she doesn't; not when she's still not one hundred percent sure that he won't turn into mist after he closes her door behind him.

Instead, she sits with her back leaned on the bathroom door as Eren takes a shower; she listens to the sound of running water and his terrible whistling and she grins so hard she's afraid her cheeks might burst.

Then, she is the one to go wash up and, as she undresses, she shivers violently, goosebumps all over her skin, burning thoughts twisting in her mind and hot ache swelling in her stomach when cold water hits her back.

And when she emerges with wet hair sticking to her neck, he's standing in her bedroom; back turned on her, he's talking quietly on the phone, his lean silhouette illuminated by the white glow of street lights falling through the window.

He's shirtless and the line of his spine leaves her speechless; the way muscles of his back dance underneath his dark skin enchants her; he bewitches her, mind and soul, with everything he does.

He holds her full attention by simply existing in the same space as her.

…

The problem is, after he ended talking on the phone ( with his flatmate, Mikasa assumed) and after they laid down on her way too narrow bed together, their feet touching, knees and elbows and arms pressed together -

She still can't turn her mind off.

"Hey. You can 't sleep?" he asks after an hour or so, interrupting the stiff silence between them. Mikasa, staring at the ceiling and wondering idly why awkwardness is not eating her inside out right now, turns her head to face him and nods slightly.

"Maybe think about… like, top five things that make you sleepy," he suggests, half-jokingly, but he sees her brows furrowing.

She has this cute little wrinkle between them when she's thinking about something really hard. He lets himself imagine reaching out and smoothing it with his thumb.

"Rain," comes her soft voice. "Riding in a car. The smell of cinnamon. "

She stops taking abruptly, biting on her lower lip and locking her gaze on the ceiling.

"A -and?" he presses on.

"Being he- held," he whispers, stumbling on words and blushing red in the darkness.

Well, he can only do one thing in response.

He gathers her in his arms, pulling her closer to him and spooning her from behind. Their bodies press to one another on the whole length; and although this contact burns, although they both gasp when their skins start to tingle – their limbs rearrange, seemingly by themselves. His arms lock around her waist and he rests his chin on the top of her hand; her hands cover his, laced up on her belly. Their legs entwine. Both of their hearts beat in the same erratic rhythm.

"I thought we agreed not to do – this anymore tonight," she lets out, stunned.

He shrugs; a motion that she feels on some weird emotional level before she feels it on her own body.

"I'll hold you so you can fall asleep. Unless-" his arms loosen a bit around her - "unless you're not comfortable with that?"

 _I let you take my sweater off_. He can almost hear her thoughts as she huffs, clearly irritated. _I know that you know that I sat in front of the bathroom so not to be far from you for even a second. We both know it's not an issue of being comfortable. More of an issue of being too comfortable, actually._

Because, to their mutual wonder, she is not stiff in his arms and he holds her just right. They fit together so easily, so seamlessly that she just can't wrap her mind around it. That's a stranger, a strange guy that she still knows only a handful of things about. And yet she welcomed him into her apartment and into her bed and when he holds her-

When he holds her like that, when she feels his hot breath on her hair and one of his legs tangled in-between hers-

When they lay like that in darkness, in silence, with only their shining eyes and beating hearts and quiet breaths to interrupt that-

She has never felt more right.

Instead of answering, she lets her guard down; she melts against him, turns even softer and warmer. She closes her eyes, forcing her heart to calm down and her breath to be steady. She curls beside him, laces her fingers with his; _hold me like that, I welcome you here, in my heart. By my side._

The air is sweet in his mouth; she smells like lemons and mint and snow and he buries his face in her hair, this overwhelming urge pushing him closer and closer, making him tighten his arms around her and just breathe her in, with all of him.

"Mikasa?" he whispers, and she shifts beside him a little.

"Huh?" she answers, voice already laced with sleepiness and his heart swells at the sound.

"I'm so happy we've met today." His lips move, pressed on the top of her head, the words blurred and Mikasa's mind finding it hard to concentrate on anything when it feels just so good. But she doesn't need to hear him to understand what he's saying; she doesn't even have to use her mouth to say it back.

In the dark of the night, she reaches out towards their bond and doesn't pull on this red string linking them, no. She strokes it, caresses, as delicately as she can. She sends him a kiss, sweet as a kiss can be, and a _me too._

* * *

Hello, guys! Sorry that it took me so long to post this chapter, I was crazy busy lately, but I'm back with posting once a week/ once in two weeks tops. I hope you enjoyed this part of my story; if so, PLEASE leave me kudos and/or a comment so I would know that and have more motivation to continue writing. See you soon ;)


	4. YOUANFEN

YOUANFEN

CHINESE; A relationship by fate or destiny, predestined affinity or relationship. The driving forces and causes behind yuánfèn are said to be actions done in previous incarnations

 _"Meeting your soul mate is like walking into a house you've been in before - you will recognize the furniture, the pictures on the wall, the books on the shelves, the contents of drawers: You could find your way around in the dark if you had to."_

― Jandy Nelson, I'll Give You the Sun

* * *

Before the clock strikes noon and his morning coffee turns cold, Eren makes a mental list of all the things he has learned about Mikasa after he spent the night in her bed.

There's _her surname_ on top of it and he finds it kinda funny, but she's horrified when he points it out. There's the fact that she comes from Charleston ("I wouldn't take you for a Southern Belle," he says to her and she snorts into her tea. "You mean, I'm not a lady?" she asks with a playful glint in her eyes, which leaves him biting his tongue in a hurry to assure her that _yes, of course, she is, indeed, very ladylike)_. She admits that she had to move to Chicago because her career required that, he tries to show restraint by waiting a full minute before asking what she does for a living.

"Professional gymnastics." She bites on her lips and blushes a little when he whistles, impressed.

"I knew you were fit," says Eren triumphantly and she laughs at that, scrunching her nose up adorably. He wishes he could bottle up this sound and keep it always in his pocket, for rainy days.

"And I do capoeira and ice skating in my free time, just for fun," she adds off-handedly as if she was not honestly-to-God boasting now.

"Show-off," he murmurs under his breath and there's a small smile dancing on her lips as she shrugs.

There's also the fact that she has a cat, which, honestly Eren can't wrap his mind around.

"I've been here whole evening yesterday," he says, bewildered as he watches Mikasa opening the lid of the laundry basket in the bathroom and exclaiming, " There you are!"

"Whole evening and a whole night. And whole morning. And it hasn't left this basket the whole time?"

"She. And no, she's a little bit shy," explains Mikasa, walking out of the bathroom to retrieve a tin of tuna and then tapping her fingers on the lid above the basket. " C'mon girl, say hi."

Eren is not a cat person, not even by furthest stretch ( in fact, he's the opposite of a cat person. He silently thanks all the higher powers that he didn't tell Mikasa any stories from his childhood that included him tormenting his neighbors' fat, nasty tabby. )

But even he has to admit that Mikasa's cat is pretty cute, as much as a cat can be cute. In fact, she looks a little bit like Mikasa herself; small and sleek, gracefully jumping out of the basket onto Mikasa's shoulder and eyeing him suspiciously with her tilted yellow irises.

The cat's name is Madeline which apparently comes from a French cartoon Mikasa was watching as a kid while spending summers at her uncle's in Lyon.

( "French-Japanese American. What a mix. " " Best possible, full German here, nothing interesting." )

The last position on his mental list is that they have a mutual friend, which comes as a surprise to both of them.

"Well. I wouldn't really call Annie my friend," Eren huffs in amusement, putting a framed picture of Mikasa and a petite, blonde girl making silly faces back on the shelf. "But she goes to the same martial arts center as me, so we pass each other all the time, even spar from time to time and I say "hi" to her, so that probably counts for something? My friend has a thing for her, though. He keeps coming over just to stare at her above his textbooks and then denies it ."

Mikasa giggles, taking a sip of her coffee. She seems somehow… calmer, after this night. She woke up radiant in his arms, with the morning light caressing her face, her hair messed up and pillow wrinkles pressed on her right cheek, and the first thing she did was smile at him; she's more talkative now, hence him learning so much about her. And he guesses that this night benefited him too, in a way. Her presence is still intoxicating, but he deals with it better now. Can admire her without agonizing over the need to touch her; actually, listen to what she's saying instead of getting lost in his feelings and babbling like a senseless idiot.

In fact, he has learned quite a lot about Mikasa during this tranquil hour or so, with the quiet conversation over their respective plates and even quieter one that they had on a purely non-verbal basis.

He pays attention to details; to the way she's so still sometimes it's almost creepy, but when she moves, damn, it's like she was dancing. The way she walks and the tilt of her neck; she turns making scrambled eggs into a spectacle.

"If you're good enough in martial arts to spar with Annie and her crazy Muay Thai magic, you should not be impressed with my interests," she points out after a moment of silence, interrupting his (admittedly sappy) train of thought.

"Yes, but I'm not doing capoeira." He takes a bite of his eggs and almost moans (another fact; Mikasa definitely knows her way around the kitchen.) "Or gymnastics, or skating. Those require - you know-" he makes a vague waving gesture with his hand. "All this."

Her eyebrows shoot up and he feels her sudden urge to bark a laugh. At least she seems to be amused with his inability to explain himself.

"Flexibility? Grace?" she adds helpfully and he nods, relieved.

"Yup. Not my biggest strengths."

"Haven't noticed," she deadpans with a tone so serious that it takes him a second to notice the sarcasm.

"Ouch, that was harsh." He groans with theatrical pain in his voice, pressing his hand to his chest, above his heart. "You wound me."

Madeline chooses this moment to jump on the kitchen table, meowing impatiently until Mikasa feeds her a piece of toast and Eren realizes, with more than a little bit of embarrassment, that she leaves way fewer breadcrumbs than he did.

"And you? " Mikasa leans her chin on the hand, looking at him with this interested glint in her eyes, her curiosity echoing in the bond between them.

"Me?"

"I mean, we keep on talking about my life. Tell me something about yourself. Something that is not a story about all the shit you pulled in primary school."

He bites on his lip, wondering what to tell her. Well, better start with basics they neglected yesterday, right?

"So, full German, I've already told you that. Dad's a doctor, Mum is a midwife, guess I did not exactly live up to their expectations… I was less than stellar at school if you know what I mean. But I'm a police officer, that's probably not the worst job they could think of-"

"You're in the police? Really?" She seems so genuinely surprised that he contemplates feeling offended, but then he realizes that all that Mikasa knows about him, is that he was pretty much a thug, as a kid. Oh and that Starks are his favorite Game of Thrones house.

"Yup. A childhood dream come true. " He smiles fondly, recalling his ten-year-old self-sitting in front of the tv and watching with wide eyes yet another kidnapper arrested and yet another burglar caught on a crime scene. The police force grew and grew in his eyes until they turned into figures more alike to demigods than simple men. And of course, there was this time with his mum which-

Well. He didn't really want to think about it.

Mikasa shivers, wrapping her arms around herself and sending him a worried glance.

"Everything okay?" she asks, hesitantly reaching out a hand to put on his shoulder. A simple gesture, easy reassurance; the sentiment that made him shake his head, shrugging off bad memories like a dog getting rid of water from his fur.

"Yes. Old times, not much to talk about." At least yet, he thinks. Not a time or place to unload this kind of baggage, not when it's a nice, sunny day, snow sparkles in the noon light and Mikasa nods and then simply moves her hand down to rest it on the crook of his elbow.

"It seems that we may actually have more than one mutual acquaintance, if you're in the police, you know?" she says, tilting her head a bit to the left.

"Who can possibly- wait." Some wheels in his brain turn to slowly click in place and he almost gasps. How could he not think about it? They have the same fucking surname! She even told him her uncle is half French! "You're Captain Levi's niece?! "

"Well, yes." She shrugs. "You know him?'

 _Does he know him?_ It's like asking a kid in Spiderman costume on Halloween if he knows Peter Parker.

And then her eyes widen with recognition and she simply bursts into laughter.

"You are _the_ brat! The brat he keeps on complaining about, right? New in his team," she manages to let out, breathless and her shoulders shaking. " _What are the odds?"_

The odds are, in fact, simply astronomical.

But this is the thought that brings him so much warmth, so much happiness; _we would find each other anyway, different time, different place but if we didn't pass each other on that street, we would soon meet somewhere else._

He wonders if he would spot her at the annual Christmas Ball, clad in this scarlet dress he saw hanging in her closet. Or if she would drop by the station to talk with Levi about something and they would bump into each other in the crowded corridor, sending his cup of coffee and a pile of papers flying into the air.

Mikasa stops laughing and chuckles a few times, flushed with happiness, glowing from inside out and he just knows that she's thinking about the same thing.

Destined. So that's what this word means; all of the roads I could take would eventually lead me to you.

* * *

"Go out with me," he blurts out, words escaping from his mouth before he can stop them.

She raises her head to look at him, brows furrowed and eyes all surprised.

"Wait, what?"

He taps on her knee once, twice. They're sitting on the floor in her living room, a jigsaw puzzle with Lion King motive scattered in between them. Just a moment ago she was deeply engaged in finding a missing piece of Simba's front paw and he jumps out with something like that?

She reaches for his hand and laces their fingers together, waiting for an explanation. She's also wondering if that's how it's always gonna be – him surprising her at every step, proving her wrong every time she feels she already knows him well enough to at least predict some of his actions. These are the little moments that mess in her head, that remind her that even though his soul may sing to hers, he's still just a little more than a glorious mystery left for her to uncover.

He shrugs, eyes distant. It's warm and comfortable inside Mikasa's flat, the two of them basking in the heat of their closeness, brushing each other's minds every now and then, bolder and more curious with every contact. Not holding their breath, but still waiting impatiently for when the last dam to break.

"I just though… like, I should probably introduce you to my family? My friends? I called them to let them know I'll be – out for some time because I met you. But I'd really want for you to meet my mum, at least, if it's okay. "

She chews on her lower lip, one of her hands in his, the other playing with a puzzle between her fingers. The sun hits her face just right, bringing out every curve of her lovely features; the sharpness of her jaw and cheekbones, the gentle slope of her nose, the almond shape of her eyes. She's so stunning, so incredibly unreal. And he would be lying if he said that he doesn't want to show her to his world. Put her in front of his friends and say; look. _Look at her. What did I ever do to deserve that?_

Her hesitance tastes like metal on his tongue, as she lowers her head, letting her dark hair obscure half of her face.

"Of course, we don't have to do that, if you're, um, not feeling comfortable with that yet." He adds hastily, cursing himself internally. Really, his impatience will one day fucking get him killed, _they met just yesterday and he wants to show her around as if she was a new Porsche or something, great fucking idea -_

Everything plays out so quickly that his brain simply shortcuts for a good minute.

Mikasa's suddenly on his lap, her folded legs on both sides of his thighs, the smell of her hair sending all his senses into overdrive; she wraps her arms around his neck and leans in.

All his mind registers is her black eyes and the way her nose bumps gently against his, the tiny second full of tension and -

And, completely out of blue, she's kissing him.

Someone could as well soak Mikasa's nice cream-colored carpet in gasoline and then throw a match at it.

Because as soon as her lips touch his – soft, so soft and so eager and he has no idea if this eagerness is hers or his, nor does he care – as soon as he breathes her in and closes his eyes, the rest is a simple muscle memory.

He puts his hands flat on her lower back, pulling her closer until their upper halves press to one another like pieces of the puzzle that's laying forgotten, scattered on the floor; her breasts flush against his chest, her wild-beating heart thumping a rhythm against his sternum. His fingers woven into her hair and he's kissing her back; with all the desperation and need and want he feels swirling inside his belly, with all his wonder and amazement and worship.

An echo powerful enough to make them both shiver and gasp against other's lips rip through their bodies; memory from before memory, as they're kissing each other for the first time and the thousandth, something completely new tangled up with something as natural as breathing.

Her lips are warm on his, persistent and sure. No backing down, no hiding underneath a shy smile and a blush; not, when her lungs burn and her mind races and he holds her like he never wants to take his hands off her, kisses her like a madman given sanity. Glorious technicolors burst underneath her eyelids; poppy red, deep-sea blue, sparkling gold and sizzling silver.

This body may not know him, nor this mind; but her very self, her soul hums with contentment and rejoices.

 _This is what coming home feels like._

Her lungs burn for air, but her mouth has a mind of its own at this point, chasing Eren's lips with twice the desperation until they slowly part, leaning on each other's foreheads and with eyes still closed. Her lips tingle and she can't somehow catch a breath. She's too big for her body, feels too vast to be contained within the bounds of a beating heart and skin burning with his heat.

There's this weird sensation in his head; it's like the second after the roller-coaster ride has ended and your body is no longer in motion, but you're still all shaky inside, you're still expecting to spiral down and soar up any moment.

"Why- why did you do that?" he breathes out, reaching up blindly with one hand to brush her parted lips, her cheek, her jawline.

"Because I wanted to," comes her response, slow and quiet but sure, no waver and not a trace of shyness.

He opens his eyes to find her staring at him, and the sight of her knocks him defenseless on the ground, makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. With his fingers still in her messy, black hair, with a swollen mouth and this wild, wild look in her eyes, she looks like the prettiest disaster, like a tsunami wave moments before it hits the beach and consumes everything in its way.

"And I'd love to meet you mom, Eren," she adds softly, smiling with only corners of her lips and a happy glow in her black eyes.

…

Cream-colored carpet, scattered Lion King puzzle, half-closed white curtains and the ocean of white behind the window. "Uncle" blaring in red on Mikasa's muted cell phone thrown haphazardly on the night table in the bedroom, long-cold coffee in two mugs by the kitchen sink, Madeline purring gently on the loveseat, watching the pigeons on emergency stairs.

The pair of them in their own, small bubble, two faces leaning towards each other once again, two sets of eyelids fluttering closed and the heart-aching goodness between them.

 _"And I had spent the whole evening wanting to do just that,_ " she said and then set him on fire.

" _Because I wanted to,"_ she admitted and bewitched him completely.

Restrained, but honest in her desire, quiet and sure in her want.

The final thing that Eren learns this morning, is that Mikasa Ackerman's not a shy, greenhouse-grown Southern Belle. She's not small nor delicate, nor confused. She knows what she's doing, controls her every gesture, every word; she aims true, always.

She wouldn't be his soulmate if she didn't.

In a warm, Chicago 2 o'clock light, with his hands in her hair and her fingers dancing on the back of his neck, they spiral and then soar up, up and up.

* * *

Hello, guys! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, it's a little dialogue-heavy but it was a necessary thing to do, unfortunately :(. I'm having a particularly nasty writer's block with next part so if you liked this story and would like to read more, please tell me about it! It'll definitely motivate me to work.


	5. ONEGDAJ

ONEGDAJ

OLD POLISH; A LONG TIME AGO, ONCE UPON A TIME

 _"Oh yes, we are time fliers_

 _Scaling the walls of time, climber_

 _Tired of playing hide and seek with time and always coming just short"_

 _RADWIMPS, Nandemonaya ( English version)_

( She's sure that this is what hell must look like. Not like they taught her in church, not like in grandma's warning stories; no flames, no smoke, no hideous demons laughing at her tormented screams – but exactly like this.

It's dark in the sewers, such a complete, unfathomable darkness that she thinks she could go blind without even noticing that; full night, no stars underground, if there are any left at all if they haven't all fallen down burning on the streets already. And it stinks, god, it stinks so much; there are hot tears running down her cheeks, her skin crawls and turns inside out , disgust twisting in her stomach.

The only sounds are the piercing shrieks of rats and the wet, disgusting splashes as they move forward, in silence save for a few sobs here and there; not a group of people, but one terrified creature with many legs and sheer survival instinct pushing it forward.

 _I don't want to die._ She thinks desperately, trying to stop herself from vomiting, as she falls down on her knees when the ceiling of a tunnel dramatically drops. _I don't want to die here._

Here, in the summer of 1944, in Warsaw sewers, during an Uprising that, only a few weeks ago, seemed like an epic adventure, like an opportunity to show the world that they will not bend the knee, that they will fight till the end, that they would rather die than surrender.

And so they died, oh, so they did.

Went to their deaths valiantly, fearlessly, with heads held high and their smooth, young hands often empty, for there were not enough guns for everyone. Living, breathing people turned into a story incarnate, but now she's not sure if anyone will even be left alive to tell it.

She went too, of course, eager as always, left her family behind to smuggle messages from one district to another and patch up wounds from missing limbs, and ears, and eyes with whatever scraps and rags she could get her hands on, scoffing everytime someone told her that _girls can't be soldiers._

With sewers' murky water pooling between her fingers and concrete scraping her knees raw, she thinks about her friends, about Krystyna with a halo of hair made out of gold and a smile made out of sunshine, about Janek pulling on her pigtails and laughing at his own poor-ass jokes, about Michał and his idealistic dreams, his castles in the sky made of bravery and sheer willpower. And Alina, always Alina.

Someone whispers at her to go faster and so she moves forward, pushes on, more tears falling now, but it doesn't matter. Nobody can see them down here in the darkness anyway.

…

Some strangers pull her up, limp and breathless and for a moment her mind goes into overdrive, not sure if she's still alive at all. They lay her down on the pavement and rush to help others, as she vomits despite having an empty stomach, eyelids shut tightly closed because daylight painfully pierces through her vulnerable eyes.

There's shit in her hair, on her clothes, under her nails, smeared on her cheeks. Shit and dirt and gore and Alina's dried-up blood, and she simply can't find it in herself to care. She turns on her back, breathing in and out; how sweet the air tastes, how good it is to just lay still among all the chaos and screaming and the faint sound of bombs nearby, the creepiest symphony of life and death blended all together into one.

She had a role to play in this madness, she's sure of that. She was a soldier, a soldier with no gun but a lot of guts instead , but then Alina rested her pretty blonde head on her lap and fluttered her eyelashes; she looked confused, as if she didn't know what was going on, why Nazis tore her dress off her and raped her, and shot her and then almost lazily left her to bleed out under the clear blue sky, her insides spilling on the pavement.

Summer was in its bloom, the grass was so incredibly green and Alina was not a partisan, she was not in Army, she was not in Grey Ranks; she was just her childhood friend living in Wola District, with bluebell eyes and a fiancé who worked in a bakery.

Stop, stop, stop.

Don't think about them.

 _So much dead though_ she thinks anyway, slowly sitting up and straightening her back. _The entire army of dead marching through the Warsaw, the sound of their boots on the pavements so similar to gunshots._

And there's nothing she can do about it, no way to stop it all. _Useless._

She had a role in all of this, she had a rank and a purpose- she still does, she's sure of that. But as she stands up on shaking legs, leaning on the lamppost to for balance; as she hesitantly opens her eyes and takes a step forward, she leaves this role behind her.

…

It's the violent coughing that catches her attention.

He lays in the narrow passage in between two half-ruined buildings, obscured from the view. At first, she rushes to help, but then the metal in his uniform catches the light and glistens and she stops half-step, biting her lip painfully, drawing blood.

The German soldier has gray eyes, gray as the sky above Warsaw, strangely serene in his bruised face. Dirty blond hair sticks to his sweaty forehead as he struggles for each breath; there are scarlet poppies blooming on his white shirt here and there with his slightest movement.

She knows she should turn around and go her way. Why does it matter to her - this Nazi bleeding out on a dirty street, behind rubble that used to be the best butcher's shop on this side of Vistula?

This man surely has blood on his hands. Maybe the one of her family, of her friends, of her fellow soldiers.

She should leave him here to rot or maybe even help him on his way to hell, make him pay with his life for all the pain he put her people through. But those eyes, he has those incredible gray eyes and they look up to the sky, no fear of pain in them, only stillness.

He seems so calm. So – almost happy, in a way.

She tentatively takes a step closer, and maybe it's the sound of her heels or maybe it's the disgusting smell of sewers on her that alerts him of her arrival – he turns his head slightly to look at her.

Gray eyes widen, turning black as fast as the summer storms turn blue sky dark.

She feels so strange. Her head starts to spin and she trips on the piece of wood lying in her way; falls forward, landing on all fours and painfully skinning her elbows. Something in her screams, wails with the piercing shriek, pulling her towards this man, tearing her in half.

He stares at her, wordlessly. It seems that he had almost stopped breathing, but his blood flows anyway; there are little pools of it here and there, mixing up with the red drops dripping down her hands.

Suddenly, she feels very tired. Why was it so hard for those people to notice that they all bleed the same red?

Who had started it? Who will end it? Is it even possible to end it now?

Her friends dead, her family gone, her country enslaved and her beautiful, beautiful city turned into ruins.

She's still fighting because that's what she does best; she's always been a fighter, all her life and even now, it's less a will of survival and more of a wish to go down kicking that fuels her.

But the sky above Warsaw is gray and the air is thick and it smells like gunpowder and blood; the Russians stand solemnly on the other side of Vistula and won't even bat an eyelid at the sight of the city bleeding out. There's only death dancing cheerfully and waltzing on the streets, bringing a violent end to those that once dared and dreamed and hoped.

And so, does it really matter what happens with her now? There's no future for her, even if she survives this.

The eyes of the German soldier pierce through her, making her blood sing and her heart beat faster and she honestly wants to laugh and cry and laugh some more. Out of all the places, out of all the people.

She has heard whispered stories after dark, everyone has. Some people are blessed to have someone tailor-made for them, waiting somewhere in the world. A bond that transcends centuries.

 _Who are you? Who were you to me, once? When you were not the monster from our bloodiest nightmares and when you did not come here to rape and burn and kill?_

She wonders what he sees when he looks at her. Does he see her green eyes and ginger hair and fair skin covered in shit and mud, reeking of hatred and desperation?

"Der innere Reichtum der Leute ist wie Licht bunt, durch Farbglas hereinzuscheinen. Das angenehme tägliche Leben ist wie ein warmes Kerzenlicht-"

Is that – is that a song?

Why is he singing right now?

German is a brutal language, harsh and ugly, and she knows only the necessary phases, the ones that every Polish person knows now. But even her untrained ear knows a lullaby when it hears one.

"Die sehr weite grüne Erde, das reiche schöne Wasser, die grandiose Natur sorgt immer noch für ihre Kinder.-"

His voice is quiet and raspy, but rich, and the words flow easily, so strangely soft. She is suddenly hit with a picture painted in her mind with unfamiliar hands; tall, blonde woman smiling at her, covering her with blankets and giving her a goodnight kiss on the forehead. She smells like jasmine, this woman, and she sings a lullaby to her to guard her against the nightmares.

She subconsciously moves closer, sits on folded legs in front of him. Her fingers itch to touch him, but she forces herself to stay still; hatred and longing curl in her stomach, burning her insides.

 _Fuck, why is it you?_

"Ist das der Engel, der vom dämmernden Himmel hinunterflog? Ist das der Teufel, der aus der Felsenspalte herauskroch?"

Tears drip down her face; somewhere in the distance, a woman screams with the scream of a cornered animal.

She looks right into the gray eyes of the soldier and asks him, clearly and loudly and without opening her mouth.

" _Who are you?"_

He simply shakes his head repeatedly and she somehow understands the gesture, interprets it with no prior knowledge of this man. Natural as breathing, easy as laughing at a funny joke.

"This _time, it doesn't matter."_

He's right. It doesn't matter who he is, or who she is; their names and stories are not important. This time, they are built to hate each other, not love. This time, his hands would rather wrap around her neck to choke her than around her waist to embrace her.

And so she swallows her involuntary sorrow and nods, tearing her gaze away from him.

He is just a German soldier, singing a song from his childhood to make dying a little bit easier.

And she is just a Polish former school girl who simply wants to live and nothing more.

Every step she takes away from him echoes in her bones; it's like fighting against tornado, her body itself rebelling against her. But she goes away anyway, pushes forward.

And the last thing that the wind carries her way, is his quiet voice, Polish word weird and wrong-sounding in his mouth, but recognizable nevertheless.

 _"Przeżyj."_

( Survive. )

…

"She's… she's a blessing, mom, really. You're gonna love her." Eren's warm, excited voice comes from behind bedroom doors and Mikasa has to press her hand to her mouth to stop the high-pitched giggle threatening to escape her. She honestly has no idea what to do with herself; her whole body tingles, head-to-toe as if low-current electricity was running through it.

"Yes. YES. I mean, sure. Tomorrow, okay- okay. See you. Sure, sure. Love ya." He ends the call with the small chuckle, and Mikasa jumps away from the door as his steps echo on the floor.

When he sees her standing in the corridor with her hands laced behind her back and a perfectly blank expression, he barks a laughter.

"Don't pretend you weren't listening."

"I wasn't," she rushes to protest, but she feels so light. So happy. It spills out of her in waves, washing over both of them. He shakes his head, not believing her for even a second; reaches out to take her hands in his.

"Well, everything I said is true," he states quietly, brushing her knuckles with his thumbs. "She is going to love you, no doubt about it."

Mikasa sighs heavily, leaning her forehead on his chest and closing her eyes. There's some kind of weird half-excited, half-nervous feeling in her stomach when she thinks about meeting his mom and no sweet-talking can apparently completely erase that.

"It's your mother. She's not supposed to like me."

He laughs –again, since everything she does today seems to put him in a good mood – his hand warm and gentle on the back of her skull, lips moving against the crown of her head.

"You have wrong info, Mikasa. My mum's not like that, you'll see for yourself."

"For a woman that raised the kid that terrorized the entire neighborhood… I suppose you might be right."

"Oh, that's such a strong, unnecessary word. I've already told you, Armin was the wicked mind behind all of this."

His arms lock around her waist; lightly at first, then tightening, as if he couldn't help himself and just had to keep her as close as possible. She smirks against the material of his shirt, letting her muscles relax and willing the anxiousness away. She's going to meet them all; his mum and his dad, and Armin. And talk with Annie and Levi and her parents. And it's all going to go well, because how else could it go?

They're soulmates. They're – it's just supposed to be perfect.

Eggs and toasts from breakfast are just a brief memory, they rummage through Mikasa's fridge and then make pasta with spinach and a truly ridiculous amount of garlic.

("Well, good thing you're eating it too, otherwise I wouldn't be able to kiss you."

"My god Eren, this was as smooth as sandpaper.")

They waltz around each other through the kitchen, an elaborate dance full of brief caresses and melting kisses. He stands behind her, hands on her hips and chin on her shoulder as she stirs the pasta in the pan. He hops on the countertop and she swats him away, punching him lightly on the arm. She kisses him breathlessly next to the open fridge, a bottle of wine forgotten in his hand.

They eat in soft silence, interrupted only by the songs playing on the radio and the cling of cutlery. Still watching each other with bright eyes, shared happiness bubbling under their skins like the champagne bubbles.

 _Kiss me. –_ they're thinking, willing another one to move first. – Please _, please kiss me once more._

And so they do.

..

The clock strikes eight p.m. and Mikasa turns on the tv to watch the evening news.

They're wrapped around each other on her couch, Eren napping on her lap and snoring from time to time, Madeline curled in a little ball on his broad back.

Mikasa absent-mindedly cards her fingers through the soft hair on the nape of Eren's neck, half-listening to the presenter, distracted by the irritating buzz at the back of her head. It's been present ever since they had dinner and she can't seem to get rid of it; this feeling that she has forgotten about something important, the sensation of a swarm of bees imprisoned in her skull.

Eren snorts particularly loudly, shifting position to bury his face in between her thighs and she huffs at that, the corners of her lips twitching up involuntarily.

 _Damn this boy._

And as she raises her hand up to play with his hair once more, there's a … melody. A trumpet, a violin, a cello- and woman's voice, soft as kitten's fur.

There comes piano and flute's shrill, a powerful sound of a tube, euphonium somewhere in all of this. A wonderful symphony she knows by heart, even though she has never heard it before.

She blinks as the rich colors burn her eyes- the heavy, scarlet material of the curtains; the blazing gold of the ornaments and the chandelier shining like fire in dimmed lights-

It's so real. So true. Everything she could touch and smell and hear, everything surrounding her just as realistic as the blood pumping in her veins and a heart beating in her chest.

Her corset, tightly laced and stealing her breath away, jeweled combs in her elaborate up-do hurting her scalp, wood of the stage creaking under her shoes as she enters it and opens her mouth to join the orchestra -

And then something catches her attention, forces her to turn her head to the left and her eyes find the woman sitting in the front row, flushed and round and pregnant, her husband by her side, holding her gloved hand. Feathers in her blonde hair and piercing green eyes wide open, gleaming softly, looking right at her-

Ah.

She stumbles, her voice gets stuck in her throat, notes unsung, lines forgotten.

Who is that woman, who pales when their eyes meet?

The smell of expensive perfume and fine wine, the whole audience painted in scarlets and golds and purples like a jewelry box open.

She takes a deep breath and starts to sing, but her heart gallops in her chest, her breath catches, lungs burn.

 _Who are you?_

Green eyes, green eyes everywhere she looks.

"Mikasa? Hey, Mikasa, you okay?"

The presenter's still babbling on tv, Madeline's meowing on the floor, nervously circling the couch.

Eren's face swims in front of her eyes until she blinks a couple of times; there he is, concern painted on his features, his hands holding her face a little too roughly, fingers digging in her cheeks.

"Oi." She sighs painfully and he rushes to help her to sit down.

She's on the carpet, she realizes, dumbstruck. _Why am I on the carpet?_

"Sorry." He scratches the back of his neck anxiously. "Did you have a bad dream? You must've fallen asleep and we both fell off the couch-"

 _It was not a dream._

Silk and pearls and gold and his green eyes shining in the face of that woman in the front row.

"It was not a dream," she repeats slowly, out loud this time, feeling Eren's confusion clouding her mind. "It was- I think it was a memory."

He gasps, taking both of her hands in his.

"Shit." He seems equally breathless as her. "Really? Fuck, I mean… what did you see? "

"It's hard to describe." – she stares down at their linked fingers, trying to find right words. "I think we met for the first time? It was- in a - let me think- in an opera of some sort. Oh, and you were a woman!"

This should come as no surprise; the gender never stays the same, it would be impossible, not during so many lives. But he flushes anyway and then tries to hide it, and so she tries not to laugh but fails miserably. He groans, leaning down to bury his face in her neck.

"Was I at least cute?" he murmurs against her skin and she laughs harder, patting him on the back.

"I can't believe it's the first thing you want to know."

"It's an important question."

Well, she can't argue with that.

"Yes, I guess. But I don't think it matters. You were married to someone else."

And as she says those words out loud, something cold and heavy sinks in her stomach. She imagines seeing Eren with another girl in his arms, him kissing another's lips, promising love and devotion to somebody else, and she almost gags with disgust. It's not right, it's just not right. He raises his head up to look at her, furrowed brows and the same kind of sadness painted on his face.

 _This was not a good one for us._

He kisses her slowly, so slowly; kisses her tenderly and letting his warmth melt their pain away, just as easily as the May sun melts the last spring snow.

 _But this one is, I promise you that._

It's late at night when it happens; the numbers on her alarm clock are piercing his eyes with burning red when he gazes at them ( _3.34 what the hell)_ and at first he's not even sure why he's woken up when it's still dark and the bed is so warm and he is so damn comfortable.

But then he raises his head up and looks around and it's just like that; moonlight painting the room in silver and black, cool, frosty air coming through the window which was left ajar, crumpled white sheets and him. Alone.

The spot where she was supposed to lay is cold when he touches it and, momentarily, blood freezes in his veins, shivers running down his spine; but before panic overcomes him, he notices the quiet, metallic cling coming from behind bedroom's closed doors.

He has a nasty taste in his mouth as he makes his way across the corridor, towards bathroom; unpleasant sensation of a good dream slowly turning bad when he gently knocks on the wood once, twice and it opens up at his touch, not being previously locked.

"Mikasa?"

The sharp, clinical light leaves him blind for a moment, with yellow spots dancing at the edge his vision, but then he blinks and sees her; standing in front of the mirror with a pair of kitchen scissors in her left hand, cling of metal ringing like a gunfire in his ears when yet another strand of her raven hair lands on the floor. They're scattered everywhere around her, stark black against the white porcelain of the sink, against green tiles of the floor, against the skin of her bare feet.

The mirror reflects her, her pale cheeks and eyes wide open, black irises consuming all the grey, the mechanical gesture of her hands as she reaches out for another strand. Most of her hair is already chin length, framing her face like a messy, inky halo.

"Mikasa," he calls out, unsure if he should approach her or stay in the corridor. She seems so distant, so out of herself that doesn't seem like she is here at all. It doesn't seem like she is standing in front of him, when her eyes are so far away, straight out of a different dimension.

"Mikasa!"

His voice is uncomfortably loud in the quiet apartment; she blinks and gasps and stumbles forward, her hands gripping the edge of the sink before she can collapse on the floor like the scissors that slip from between her fingers.

He jumps towards her, wrapping his arm around her waist to steady her.

"Oi, Mikasa. It's okay, it's okay now." Words escape from his mouth with no control whatsoever when her terror washes over him, freezing him from inside out; she's so cold, so afraid, trembling against him.

She presses her face to his bare shoulder, lips moving on his skin.

"What has happened where am I, Eren, what has - what have I done-"

A frantic litany laced with fear and confusion.

"Shhhh," he hushes, gently carding his fingers through her now- short - hair. "Shhh, I'm here, I've got you, it's okay."

He looks up and catches their reflection in the mirror; Mikasa in his arms, the shaking pile of muscles and pale skin and black strands, soft in-between his fingers. His own face, pale with emotion and brows raised up; the way they both seem odd in the picture, older and younger at the same time.

And then he blinks and for a moment- just a moment – a rip in time, in space opens in front of his very eyes.

 _Mikasa's holding him; red scarf wrapped around her neck, white shirt stained in mud and blood, fingers digging in his shoulder blades, hot tears streaming from her cheek, the sheer relief and desperation of hers shaking the ground underneath him, billows of steam surrounding them like mist-_

Just for a second, enough to imprint itself on the underside of his eyelids, before the picture fades away, quick as a lightning strike.

* * *

Hi everyone!

So, I really hope this chapter was worth the wait ;). I'm freaking anxious about it since there are so many retrospections here, so please, let me know down in the comments if it's something that you enjoyed. Big thanks to all of you that commented on the previous chapter; it's for you that I continue with this fic and I'm trying hard not to disappoint you.

Chapter six is in a process of writing which is honestly AGONIZINGLY slow, but don't worry; it may take me a little longer, but I'm not gonna abandon this work just yet ;)

( oh and the lullaby which Mikasa's precious incarnation sings is, of course, Vogel im Kafig which probably all of you know anyway ;) )


	6. APRICITY

**APRICITY**

ENGLISH; THE WARMTH OF THE SUN IN WINTER

 _"_ _someday, someone will love every inch of you – the sunset behind your eyes, the moonlight still dancing through your hair, the sadness still hanging the creases of your palms. They're going to kiss them and tell you how beautiful it all is. All the parts you keep tucked away,_

 _Someday, someone is going to say 'I love all of you, not just the parts that make sense, not just the parts you have shown me. I love what I don't understand, what weights on your shoulders when I steal glances at you in silence. "_

 _tyler kent white_

* * *

 _She's not a loud person by nature and it's no different in bed, but whenever she feels really good, she makes the most wonderful sounds - deep, breathy gasps, all contentment, and pleasure._

 _And he has come to learn how to make her feel like that; has learned how to play her the way she plays her beloved violin - which string to pull to hear her moan his name, which key to push to coat her skin with a thin layer of sweat. And he does that all, as often as he can, with all the enthusiasm and devotion he holds inside of him._

 _Because whenever he holds her in his arms, buried to the hilt in her, he looks at her and it sends his mind into overdrive. Ever-fucking-single time. Grey eyes misted with pleasure, cheeks flushed, muscles twitching underneath his touch, those tiny hiccups of gasps that escape from her lips when she's close to the edge… Dear god, he could never get enough of that._

 _Her bed is a tangled mess of sheets, when they both finish; there are purple blemishes already blooming on her dark skin and he dreads the moment she'll notice them and punch him on the shoulder for marking her like that. But for now she's satisfied and sleepy, eyes bleary, dark hair sticking to her neck as she cuddles against him._

 _It's all stolen moments, brief seconds of happiness, that's all he ever gets. In a few hours, the sun will be up and she will reluctantly escape from his arms to get back to work, to pin her mistress' hair in place, tie the laces of her dress and bring her croissants and chamomile tea on the silver tray. She'll raise up, stretch and the quiet sound of her joints popping in place will wake him up and he'll open his mouth to protest, to invent some words to make her stay just for five minutes more, but she'll silence him with a kiss._

 _She'll put on her petticoat and her dress; will tie her hair in a neat bun and pull on her shoes and she'll leave, swift and quiet. And a moment later he'll raise up too, close the doors of their little lovers' nest behind him. Make his way through the city, grabbing a newspaper on his way, reaching home just in time for a good morning kiss from his wife._

 _They have a routine of some sort, but it's all stolen, borrowed, bartered. It's not forever, not with the contrast between shades of their skins and the number of pennies in their pockets. However, the sign of her lying naked beside him, the warmth of her deep, even breaths… it's all just enough to make the wait for the next time bearable._

* * *

He starts telling her the story of his parents that night.

Hoists her up from the bathroom floor and carries her to the bedroom, her heels digging into his lower back; sits down cross-legged on her bed and refuses to let go of her. She's still trembling, reaching up now and then to touch the uneven ends of her hair until he gently swats her hand away.

"Mum met dad on her second semester in uni, you know?" he says quietly and she wants to pull away to see his face, surprised, but his arms held her in place. " She caught a cold or something and he was an intern in the hospital nearby. They locked eyes and – well, you know how it is."

"Your parents are soulmates?" she asks and he hums in confirmation, leaning his chin on the crown of her head.

"It was the same old story, the lightning, the thrill, the flashbacks…. But it was not until they were married that she actually started to remember enough to put those past lives together," he chuckles and it's an ugly sound; strained and strangely bitter, very un-Eren-like.

"Not that it took them long to tie the knot. Six months, and done, and no one even said a word against it. "

Which, Mikasa thought to herself, wasn't that surprising. It happened. _Why should we wait_ , many people reasoned, _why, if it's meant to be?_

"They moved away after the wedding, crossed country because dad was given this grand offer. Mum finished studies somewhere else and then they had me. And after some time – couple of years, mum couldn't get rid of this feeling, like something's not okay. She kept on seeing this woman; she was watching her, following her to the work and back home. And she just had a feeling that she had known her before, but couldn't place her anywhere. Di- eh, this woman kinda rubbed her the wrong way, so she started to nag dad about it. "

He pauses for a moment and takes a deep breath.

 _Dina's cornflower blue eyes and yellow, chin-length hair; her mouth spread wide in this creepy smile as she reached for him in that alley._

"And dad was like, _You must be overworked, Carla, you're seeing things that are not there_. Denied everything she said and she trusted him because- "

"You're supposed to trust your soulmate unconditionally," Mikasa finishes his sentence, lips moving against the bare skin of his shoulder, sending shivers down his spine. "Who was she? That woman?"

Eren stays quiet for a moment. In the moonlight, Mikasa's hair looks almost violet; the new length exposes the paleness of the nape of her neck. Honest. Vulnerable. So open that she almost seemed scraped raw. He has never understood his mother as well as now, with Mikasa's heart on her sleeve, ready for his taking. He has never hated his dad so much, thinking how he saw all that trust and took advantage of that.

He tightens his arms around her and vows one more time to _be better._

 _"_

 _The sun's shining so brightly that one could go blind from looking at the sky; Armin's hand is clammy with sweat in his as they make their way to the river bank, in search of some shadow and cool breeze. They're already too old to hold hands at this point and it earns them names and bruises but they do it anyway, because it feels nice and who are others to measure the distance between them with the school ruler and proclaim if it's acceptable or not? His parents are standing in front of the house, waving, and his mother is laughing at something his father has just said; hair in that side-ponytail of hers, a dimple in her left cheek, dad's arm looped around her waist. She's in her uniform, getting ready for an afternoon shift and she's already late but stopped to warn them to come back before sunset anyway._

 _That's how he sees it, how he's always going to mark this moment; the last second of normalcy, the last chapter of a suburban dream with his parents' smiling faces illuminated by the yellow noon light, the greenery of their garden and Armin's cheerful whistling; the mundane beauty of it all._

"And what did she do?" Mikasa breaks the silence with her question, her voice tinted with hesitance and curiosity; she reaches her hand up to comb through his hair.

He wants to say _broke my family apart,_ has this sentence forming on his tongue but he stops himself before he can utter the phrase. Once upon a time he really did believe that, once, he would give anything to turn back time and go back before that sunny May afternoon happened, but now he can't really bring himself to state that.

Because it's not true, no matter how badly he wants it to be. There's no one that can be blamed for this situation, besides the twisted fate itself and one, specific person that should shoulder the responsibility of handling it all so poorly and it's, admittedly, not Dina.

"She- uh, I was coming home late with Armin and she was waiting for me in some alley." He gulps, trying to push away the wave of nausea. "Grabbed me by the arm and –"

 _The cold metal of a gun against the back of his head; his mom pouncing on Dina like a wild cat, the echo of a gunshot still ringing in his ears a week later;_

"Eren."

He blinks; Mikasa's face is swimming in front of his eyes and he realizes he's started to cry.

"Eren," she says his name again, voice as soft as the warm winter sweater. "It's okay, you don't need to tell me all of that." She wipes the tears from his face with the sleeves of her blouse, her moves steady and gentle and the irony twists his guts; he was supposed to comfort her, to make her think about something else than past lives and long-forgotten horrors, not the other way around.

 _We comfort each other. Take care of each other._ She whispers without words and honestly, he's not even surprised that she's in his head; after all, she's all he can think about.

There's an unspoken reassurance in her touch; she kisses his cheek softly, lips lingering on his skin for a little longer than the act requires. Warmth spreads through his body as she settles on his lap again, wraps herself around him, the already-familiar weight of her against him instantly calming him down.

 _We are not your parents, Eren. Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid of the past we shared, please._

There's a red string between them, tied in a bow and binding them together, no matter what; she's half of his soul. There's no turning back anyway, so why should he try to retreat in fear?

 _No matter what the past holds, what we have will never change,_ her eyes say and it's a lie, he knows that. But a lie beautiful enough that he decides to believe in it.

"No, I want to tell you. I do." It sounds weak, even in his own ears, but he pulls himself together and does it.

After he finishes, the silence hangs in the air, heavy on his shoulders and then he chuckles, surprising himself most of all.

"Jesus, I don't know why I've just dumped it all on you when you're shaken enough on your own. I'm sorry. I guess I just- I don't want to keep any secrets from you, Mikasa. Ever."

Before he can say anything else, she looks his straight into eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks, a forest fire of feeling raging inside her so violently, that it echoes in his bones.

"Thank you," she says, gasping for breath through hiccups. She raises her arms and pulls him towards her, her body shaking again with sobs, but this time she's crying _for him_ and this breaks his heart into pieces. "Thank you for telling me this. Thank you for experiencing all of that and still – still being brave enough to trust me."

Hopeless, that's what he is for her right now. Hopeless, when her feelings for him flow freely like a current through his body, when he can see clear as day how much it's bubbling under that poised demeanor of hers.

 _How could I not love you, Mikasa?_ He thinks desperately, fisting her blouse in his hands, forehead resting on her sternum. _How could I ever not do that?_ _It has nothing to do with bravery._

"I promise, I'm going to deserve that." She kisses the top of his head, her tears making his hair damp.

 _You already do._

The morning colors the sky rose and finds them like that; Eren in Mikasa's embrace, her arms around him, his ear pressed to her chest, the steady beating of their hearts lulling them both into sleep, guarding them against nightmares.

Mikasa takes a deep breath and opens the bathroom door; she knows that Eren woke up before her and cleaned up the whole mess, but it's still so eerie in here.

There's no trace of her black hair on the cold tiles and yet she keeps looking for it. Maybe it would be better if he left it the way it was, maybe it would seem more real somehow if she saw it in the daylight. But the bathroom is pristine clean as always and the only sign that anything even happened is the feeling of tips of her hair brushing her neck and Eren's voice still echoing in her head.

She locks his story tightly shut in her heart, guarded by her ribcage. Some tales are the ones that shouldn't be mentioned after dawn. Some things are reserved for 3 a.m. dark thoughts. Like the one of a man who kept on building his life with somebody else before meeting his soulmate and of a woman scorned over and over again and spiraling down into insanity each time. Sad and tragic and inevitable, through the centuries.

There's emptiness in her mind, blank space when, once again, she tries to remember waking up in the middle of the night and going to the bathroom to cut her hair. Not a trace of recollection, not a single glimpse of memory. Why did she do that? What pushed her to get rid of this braid that she's been grooming since middle school? A waterfall of black hair, just like her mother's; she's not a vain person and she doesn't really care that much about other's people's opinions about her, but she'd be lying if she said that it didn't hurt her pride, didn't make her feel self-conscious. And confused. And a little bit afraid.

Is it how it's gonna look like, getting her memories back? Messy and weird and almost scary sometimes?

She can't help but come back to Grisha and Carla Jager's story, which could be as well a cautionary tale for all the little kids with gleaming eyes, wishing for a soulmate.

( _With her hand holding his, Eren tells her how Dina grabbed his arm and pulled him towards her, how she pressed her little gun against his head and called his mum, each of her words punctuated with those bursts of strange giggling. How Carla came running and straight-up jumped on her, no thinking, no hesitation, how Dina pulled the trigger and how it all might've ended differently if Armin didn't run and brought a police officer with him._

 _And then he tells her about his father, stuck in repeating himself in being too quick to fall, not patient enough to wait._

 _"_ _Dina kept on- hurting mom, each and every time" what he wants to say is' killing', she just knows that, but it gets stuck in his throat – she feels that too, choking her in the fear which is not her own but might as well be. "And he would make the same mistake, always. No escaping from this circle. "_

 _"_ _But she's okay, right? Your mom?" she tries as hard as she can for her voice to remain calm, unwavering, but she knows well that her heart betrays her, trashing with concern in her chest._

 _And for a moment she sees the answer, rather than hears it; sees it through his very own eyes, his darkest memories that he never even thinks about but decided to share with her, because he just couldn't hide it anymore._

 _Gunshot. Scream – they were all screaming, him and Carla and Armin, and the surprise on Dina's face; her face twisting almost comically at the blood running down her own sleeve._

 _"_ _Yes, Dina- I suppose, in all this struggling, she accidentally pulled the trigger and shot herself. But we both ended up whole. And then dad moved away, so, uhm, there was only the two of us left."_ )

Broken hearts and broken trust and broken family… define 'whole'.

She sighs, hands gripping the edges of the sink, gathering all her courage before raising her head sharply; it's a strange feeling, seeing her own face in the mirror and not quite recognizing it.

Her eyes trace the uneven strands, the jagged ends massacred by dull scissors and she hesitates for a moment – just a moment- before she opens the drawer, looking for the sharper pair and tries to fix the mess on her head the best she can.

He moves so quietly that it takes her a moment to realize he's leaning on the doorframe, quietly watching her with his arms laced on his chest. He's worried – there's this weird buzz under her skin and she knows this feeling so well. Concern, fear, nervousness. All concealed by this mask he turned his face into, but even if they didn't have that bond, his eyes would give him away anyway.

She delicately sets the scissors on the countertop; runs her fingers through her hair, surprised by the swell of satisfaction blooming in her chest as she eyes her reflection.

"It'll be more difficult to put it in a bun during competitions, but-" she sends him a shy glance, her chin low and eyes shining. "It's not that bad, is it?"

 _Is she even serious?_ He wonders.

He wishes she could see herself through his eyes; would see what she looks like. The piercing light of the sun falls through the window, bathing her in warm white, making her almost ethereal, almost translucent. Long-sleeved cream blouse and sleep shorts exposing her gorgeous legs, graceful line of her neck and this angel halo of dark framing her face. She's so freaking pretty, so lovely, even more lovely now after her own mind and body betrayed her and still, she's spent the rest of the night holding him, sharing his burden of unspoken fear without a word of protest, even though he worried her even more, instead of bringing her comfort.

 _You are exquisite, Mikasa. Stunning._

Her cheeks turn cherry and she tears her gaze away from him, a small smile blooming on her lips.

 _Am I that obvious?_

"You really think that?" she asks quietly, eyes still locked on the white porcelain of the sink, one strand of silky black hair in-between the fingers, his admiration of her filling the room like a delicious smell of fresh-cut flowers.

"What, that you're beautiful?" There's lightness in his voice, and, to his delight, she bites on her lower lip, and there it is; her slight embarrassment and affection for him, sweet and thick as honey.

He takes a few steps inside the bathroom to stand right next to her and take her hands in his; is rewarded with a small gasp and a tingle of electricity as he presses a small kiss to her knuckles.

"You know how I feel, Mika. You know I could never fake that."

Because it's December, it's already twilight when they close her apartment doors behind them; their long, shadowy silhouettes melt into one and Mikasa wonders what they must look like to people passing them by- how drunk they must seem, steeping every few meters to caress other's frostbitten cheek or steal a peck or two under the lamppost, bursting into laughter randomly. Were they to meet any of her friends, would they even recognize her? This giddy, happy girl with a borrowed scarf around her neck, holding the hand of a strange boy, clinging to him with all she's got?

She suspects they wouldn't. She can hardly recognize herself.

Mikasa's hand feels so good in his. On the busy street, with inky sky and snow sparkling like in a Christmas Wonderland, they make their way just like they did the night before. Not much is different and yet everything is.

 _God Eren, if Ymir or Jean heard you talking sappy shit like that, they would never let that go._

Oh, fuck it, who cares about them, who cares about anything, definitely not him.

She leans her head on his shoulder, a contented sigh escaping her lips when their closeness warms them both from inside out. Their boots make scratching sound as they step on the freshly fallen snow, so frozen that almost dry and still more flakes swirl gracefully, stark against the dark sky. And Mikasa in all of that, laughing, the tip of her nose pink, hair dusted with white and lips chapped from cold temperature and yet tasting so sweet, looking somehow both dignified and joyful, this impossible girl holding entire galaxies inside her.

They take a shortcut and a few minutes later the hustle and bustle of a busy main street die down and he leads her down the pavement where he played as a kid. She looks around curiously and it's a very strange feeling that her presence here evokes in him; she fits so well in this picture.

 _You should've been here right from the beginning._

He can almost see it; nine-year-old Mikasa, all wide-eyed and precious in a baby pink dress, swinging on the swings next to him, listening to Armin's excited babble about black holes and Mariana Trench, stuffing her face with his mom's freshly baked Apfelstrudel, blushing at the medical diagram's in his father's study, playing hide-and-seek with him in the park and feeding the ducks with uneaten peanut butter jelly sandwiches from lunch.

Holding his hand in hers through all this time, just like she does right now.

The house is so nice. Small, yes, but nice nevertheless, with window frames painted white and a Christmas wreath hanging on the doors. There's a wooden porch in the front and smoke coming out of the chimney and Mikasa can't help but feel a little bit of nostalgia for her own childhood house, the one she has left behind years ago. Eren's home looks like a picture-perfect family home, all it lacks is a white picket fence at the front and 1.2 kids more.

There's something so incredibly home-y about it, so much, that she instantly feels warmer, stepping on the freshly-shoveled cobblestone path leading to the entrance. Home-y enough that this little twist in her gut eases up just a little bit, making it easier for her to breathe.

Eren puts one hand on the small of her back as if he was afraid she'll bolt and run away, so she sends him a reassuring smile to say _don't worry, I'm in._ As he raises his fist up to knock on the doors, she reminds herself that there is no way that this woman is more intimidating than her uncle Levi and that she has all the rights to be here by her son's side.

All of that mental self-brainwashing doesn't help her at all, when the door swings open- fast enough to send the wreath swinging dangerously – and she's suddenly face to face with Eren's mom.

The first thing that crosses her mind is that it is, definitely, Eren's mom, no doubts about it. She looks so much like him; the shape of her eyes and her lips, and the shade of her skin, and the way she's standing tall and sure of herself. A spitting image, a mirror reflection. All of those tiny things that make Eren Eren… they are all inherited from her.

She silently eyes the both of them, her scrutinizing gaze turning sharper at the sign of their laced fingers and for a moment Mikasa's almost afraid that this woman is going to pull Eren inside and close the doors, leaving her out in the cold. But then something gleams in Carla's eyes as if someone lit a candle inside her; her mouth curves into the smile, a dimple appearing in one of her cheeks.

"Oh, look how lovely you are, sweetheart," she says, sounding surprisingly teary. She takes a step outside, reaches out her arms and pulls Mikasa against her chest, knocking the breath out of her.

" _Mom!"_ Eren whines, sighing deeply. "Leave her alone."

"Nope," comes the reply, the word muffed by Mikasa's borrowed red scarf. She's simply standing and letting Carla hug her, too stunned to react.

"Mom, she doesn't like that."

Carla smells like a snickerdoodle fresh out of oven and peppermint shampoo; she's so motherly warm, so caring in the way she wraps Mikasa in her own heat against the harshness of the elements. Just like Eren, but where he is dancing flames, all livid and passionate, his mother is the sun in the middle of the winter, blinding with its intensity, making any load a little bit easier to bear. And Mikasa thinks about this woman's history, how well she knows that a soulmate may not be a blessing for her son, but something else entirely, and _still_ welcomes her with open arms. Somehow still gifts her with all the love she possesses and gives away so freely. Still strong enough to be caring, when the world wants her bitter and broken.

So she moves on instinct; raises her hands to rest her on Carla's shoulder blades and hugs her as fiercely, the act so foreign and new and thrilling that it makes her ridiculously giddy.

"Actually, Eren," she says, savoring every drop of their shared happiness. "I do enjoy hugging very much. "

* * *

 _It's been a long, frantic day and all Grisha wants is to just fuck it all, go home, take a long, hot shower, kiss Dina goodnight and fall asleep. But there's still a couple of hours of his shift left and unfortunately, the patients simply don't care that his son is currently teething and didn't let him close his eyes even for a second the night before._

 _He's tapping his fingers to the rhythm of The Police's Every Breath You Take playing on the radio, halfway through the pile of paperwork when the nurse- poor thing, even more, tired than him, with purple shadows underneath her eyes stark even against her cinnamon skin – calls for him and asks if he could_ _ **please**_ _take care of the next patient of Dr. Holland, since she's been needed on Intensive Care?_

 _And of course, he says yes, cause he's a martyr like that._

 _He's thinking about Zeke as he makes his way through the corridor, passing irritated patients and busy nurses. He's thinking about his son's chubby cheeks and the unruly tuft of light hair and how he shrieks with delight whenever he's thrown up in the air._

 _He's thinking about his and Dina's son, the dearest thing in his life, as Carla Schmidt quietly enters Dr. Holland's room, politely closing the door behind her, "Good night" dying on her lips as his eyes meet hers and Grisha's body bursts into flames._

 _Memories flood him altogether, leaving him unable to breathe; blue and green, gold and brown and this undeniable truth that it's all going to end in tragedy and he can do nothing about it._

 _He takes Carla's hand in his, leaving papers scattered on the floor, what was supposed to be the happiest moment in his life turning bitter and rotten, blind panic overtaking his body. And against all his wishes, all his wit and reason, all priorities and prayers, there is nothing he can do but fall._


	7. YI RI SAN QUI

**YI RI SAN QUI**

CHINESE IDIOM; "ONE DAY, THREE AUTUMNS" – INTENSELY MISSING OR LONGING FOR SOMEONE SO THAT ONE SINGLE DAY APART FEELS LIKE THREE YEARS

 _"and it ain't a mystery you fell for me_

 _we're just two lost souls trying to find our peace_

 _love like ours ain't a masterpiece_

 _it's a good day in the sun_

 _i was born to love you_

 _out where the water is wide_

 _make me your country bride_

 _you'll be my prince of tides_

 _you were born to heal me_

 _under a velvet sky_

 _cattails dancing in the light_

 _we were born to live a long and happy life_

 _a happy life_

 _\- Delta Rae A Long and Happy Life_

* * *

 _People notice things, they are well awar_ _e of that; it is surely spotted how baron often seems to be dozing off when his wife shamelessly winks at other men above her feathery fan, but his dear friend is always the apple of his eye. How baroness herself is terribly fond of said friend's wife and can be rarely seen without her by her side, both of them dazzlingly dashing with their blonde hair and tightly-laced corsets._

 _How much time the four of them spend together; the sheer close proximity of two couples would be enough to raise rumors, but, in addition to that, they slowly but surely get too lazy to cover their tracks, get tired of masks and lies and deception. Eventually, it's almost like they are not even trying anymore. They always split for vacation, when two women enjoy the thermal waters of Vichy or well-stocked libraries of their respective estates and two men laze around and almost carelessly spend golden mountains of money on wine and blackjack in Monaco (but never women, they would never buy a single woman and the baroness and her lovely lady in waiting never take men. They would all preen or giggle or send a smile or two, charming and daring, but none of them is ever actually caught red-handed. In a way, you could say that they are shockingly faithful to their respective partners – not to mistake with 'spouses'._

 _That is worth noting too.)_

 _They mix clothes and rely on servants and hotel service not to spill spicy details about any compromising and surprising positions and configurations in which they may be or not be caught; they leave dozens of apartments covered in feathers from ripped pillows, with ruined bed rests, silk ribbons thrown haphazardly all around the floor and love bites on display on the skins of their necks._

 _They chase after one another through long corridors of castles and mansions, skirts hitched up and cravats untied, hands reaching for wrong hands, lips locked with forbidden lips. Laughing out loud like children, the baron and his friend stroll around, tousled hair and all, glued at the hip, their wives following them, clad in smirks and delicate lace and shamelessness as two cheetahs in bejeweled collars. Frowned-upon desire put proudly on display like an ornate Faberge egg._

 _Stormy sky blue and soft baby blue irises caught in a shared gaze, sparkling emeralds always meeting opalescent greys._

 _Done with running and hiding, having only enough decency to use marriage titles, their affairs hidden by the sheer layer of translucent ice. A blind man could see through it easily._

 _So yes, people notice things and maybe even know things; but for some time, they all somehow get lucky and make it; buy their freedom to love and live with pearls and diamonds and defiance, and enjoy every second they are given._

 _Live like royalty, like gods among mortals, blinding in their disgusting extravaganza. Their years spent together are endless summers filled with baked swans and tender lobster tails served on silver trays, with sky-high elaborate wigs, with parties and dances and sexual plays, tiny poodles on silk leashes, horses with hooves painted in gold._

 _It's not gossips that put an end to this wonderland; it's a deadly female._

 _Madame Guillotine cuts through shining threads of their lives in four clean strikes, but it is all easy to bear as even she cannot sever the bonds that tie them all together._

* * *

There's an album full of Eren's baby pictures on Mikasa's lap and a cup of tea in her hand; cinnamon- smelling crumbs scattered on the table in front of her.

Carla is busying herself in the kitchen with dinner, her son helping her out, or attempting to do so; she can hear them bantering and playfully snapping at each other the way only a loving, if slightly overbearing parent and an equally loving, but a little bit irked child can, but they are not loud enough to interrupt her train of thought.

And that is- well.

She's mostly trying to clear her head a bit because there's a lot to take in.

In ten minutes since she has entered the Jeager's house, she's been immediately seated in the living room, given a hot drink and a heavy load of Eren-related information. He can knit, apparently, was a star soccer player from primary up until police academy, did wrestling for a while, knows how to make a mean omelette, tried living in a forest for three weeks once, owns a pug (she wonders why he didn't feel the need to tell her this particular thing. Maybe he assumed she's a cat person and decided to keep quiet, which is – just idiotic, to be honest. She's not a heartless monster, for fuck's sake; pugs are adorable. Everyone loves pugs). He's hard-working, ambitious, driven and determined and loyal to a fault. Never surrenders and never gives up; always finishes what he has started. An idiot sometimes, mouth quicker than brain and a troublemaker, but with a heart made out of sheer gold.

Carla, Mikasa thinks, would be an excellent PR specialist, if she ever becomes tired of working as a nurse. She has an urge to interrupt her monologue to assure her that, no, she doesn't really need to advertise her son so fiercely. She's already convinced, sold, bought, whatever.

But Eren's getting more flustered and flustered with every word getting out of his mom's mouth and duh, Mikasa enjoys his struggle way too much to put it to an end so soon.

Absent-mindedly, she turns pages of the album; Eren grows up in front of her eyes, from a wrinkled newborn to an awfully cute toddler, a toothy-grinned first grader, a frowning middle schooler and an awkward teenager, his lanky limbs not knowing how to operate simultaneously.

And then there are photos from his high school graduation, Eren laughing, head thrown back, surrounded by a huge group of friends, all wrapped around each other, young and shining in their capes. Hulking blond guy and a tall dark-haired one; athletic freckled girl with her arms around tiny beauty with sparkling blue eyes, a shorty with military cut spinning around laughing girl with thick ponytail, skinny fair-haired guy, glasses on his nose and the sweetest smile. She makes a mental note to ask him about their names.

And – of course- the last picture is Eren getting his badge, his eyes shining with something that looks suspiciously similar to tears.

Her own heart swells a little with pride and she can hardly fight a small smile that finds its way to her lips. Out of all the people in the world, he is the one she will get to share her life with and she couldn't be happier with the fate's choice.

"Mikasa?" Eren emerges from the kitchen, a blue bowl filled with something smelling of sage and rosemary in his hands and an orange apron hanging loosely around his hips. "You're alright?"

She smiles at him, putting the album on the table and standing up.

"Yeah, everything's fine. You need help?"

He shakes his head and opens his mouth but before he can say anything, Carla's voice rings from the kitchen:

"Actually, sweetheart, can you set the table, please? My son still hasn't mastered this art, despite many years of practice."

„Mom, please, stop." Eren sends her a very apologetic look and storms back into kitchen and Mikasa can do nothing but try to stop the giggle from escaping from her lips. She loves it all so much.

It's not just Eren she's getting. It's this house and Carla, and the pug, and the people from the photographs in Eren's album. It's a whole new world, shiny and bright and ready for her to take and be welcomed in.

And with that thought warming her head-to-toe, she follows Eren to ask Carla where are cutlery and glasses, listening to the mother-son banter quietly, with the cheek-achingly-wide smile painted on her face.

* * *

She almost moans in delight, taking yet another piece of chocolate cake into her mouth, savoring the taste on her tongue. She tries to hide that and her cover is good, he'll give her that – but he's no fool; even a complete monster would turn into a saint for just a bite of this heavenly thing that Carla somehow enchants in their old oven.

And he's seen it so many times, this expression of wonder on so many faces, but it still suits hers just best. His mom is beaming from the other side of the table, asking Mikasa questions about her culinary preferences so that she would know what to cook for their next visit. Their old golden retriever quietly patters into the dining room and puts her heavy, warm head on Eren's knees, wordlessly asking for scraps. And so, as he scratches Leia behind her fluffy ears and watches his mom and his soulmate discussing apple pies and lemon meringues…

There's a strange feeling that overcomes his body somehow, sweet and wonderful and very, very old – as if the three of them have already been there and done that before; the shared chores and shared dinner, the laughter, the talk, their voices entwined into one, perfect melody. Mom and Mikasa smiling at each other, him between them, like a bridge.

No missing pieces in this puzzle; there's a rightness in this scene that has never been there before.

Carla's smiling at them, as she ushers them out of the doors, mischief in her eyes when she says:

„Go, go, take your time together." and the sheer implication rings inher voice so clear that he feels his face turning beetroot red. He quietly wonders how many times he has already blushed tonight and even quieter laments at this count, but Mikasa just laughs.

That's all she's been doing the whole evening, actually. Laughing and beaming, her face transforming with happiness; the apples of her cheeks and the tip of her nose dusted with pink. For a few hours gone was the stoic, poised girl, still a bit unsure how to handle the situation; for a few hours she was dancing around his house from kitchen to dining room, dishes in her arms and smears of chocolate on her chin.

And he's curious about that, but he doesn't really know what question he could possibly ask her to understand.

He grabs her hand instead and they move forward. The pavement is covered by the thin layer of ice and the heels of her shoes glide against it, making a high-pitched sound.

„Your mom is lovely," she says quietly, grabbing onto his arm for better balance. „And your house too. Thank you-" she raises her head to lock eyes with him, the shadow of a smile still remaining on her mouth, " – for taking me to meet her."

He lowers his own head so that he can press a kiss to her forehead; he can't believe she is the one to thank him.

„Honestly, the pleasure's all mine. But I have to admit, I didn't expect you to click together so … well."

Mikasa chuckles, nodding to herself; a hint of her amusement makes its way into his system, light as champagne bubbles.

„You know, when I was a kid, I wanted to be just like her."

He almost trips on his own feet; stumbles and stops for a second as Mikasa steadies his form.

„Wha- what do you mean?"

She shrugs and tries to seem nonchalant, and he might have believed her if not for the way she buries her face in the folds of his scarf and grips his arm a little more forcefully.

"Well. My mom is an academic professor, she was always busy when I was a kid. But on weekends, whenever she had time, we would drive out of the city and she would just spend whole days in the garden. Had the most beautiful sunflowers in all the county. Still does, actually."

The snow is not falling anymore and the street lights shine clear; Mikasa's eyes reflect it even brighter as she stares into the distance, deep down on the memory lane.

"We have this house in the country, kind of a little farm, I guess. I loved it so much then. There was only us and a dozen of chickens and dad would sometimes take me to the river at dawn to try fishing. We would just sit for hours on the pier, not even speaking, just- taking in the view. And my mom would always wait for us with an apple pie ready. She taught me gardening, embroidery, and cooking. All I ever wanted when I was a kid was to be like my mom; to have a little house by the forest, a husband to kiss me when he comes from work and a bunch of kids to run around. To live a long and happy life."

She's looking down at her feet now, stopping speaking abruptly as if she just realized the words that came from her mouth. But he says nothing, just squeezes her hand gently and so she lets out a deep sigh, a little bit embarrassed when she states:

"Your mom is so warm, so big-hearted. This is the kind of woman I've always wanted to be."

Eren studies her form, the grace in her posture even when she is hunched, strands of black hair framing her beautiful face. Mikasa is not a woman she had just described; she is not the sunflower shining for everyone, she is not the summer sun warming all people equally. She will never be loved by everyone or love everyone. But those that she loves, those that she trusts-

He thinks about how she acts around him when there's only two of them and their heartbeats. He thinks how easily she shed her dignified demeanor while she was washing dishes, giggling with his mom.

And he envisions her childhood dream; a log cabin at the edge of the wood, a river humming nearby, picnic table covered in red-and-white checked tablecloth. Mikasa hanging sheets in the backyard, her long braid falling down her back and black-haired, green-eyed children playing hide and seek around her legs.

Coming home to see just that.

Fondness swells in his heart. This is a fantasy that doesn't belong to the world they live in and the one that, at first glance, doesn't particularly suit a woman as independent and put together as Mikasa… but a beautiful, beautiful dream regardless. The picture that he knows he will never manage to abandon.

"Long and happy life, you say?" he hums in appreciation, sending her a dazzling smile and, through their bond, a kiss to her soul, sweet and tender. "I think we can manage that."

* * *

The evening slowly turns into the night and as they prepare for bed and lay down under the covers, Mikasa can feel the storm coming.

He's about to say something and she will not like it; she knows this before he even opens up his mouth to speak.

He fiddles with his shirt and tugs gently on her hair, licks his lips, scratches the back of his neck. It's like a low-current running through her body, electricity buzzing in her ears constantly and still, nothing can prepare her for the moment when the shoe drops.

"So, uh, my shift starts tomorrow at 8.00, but I think I can finish off a little earlier, like… 16? And we can grab something to eat then, how about that?"

There's ringing in her ears and her breath catches and she wants to slap herself because, jesus Mikasa, overreacting as hell right now. He's got work, he has to go to work, nobody, and especially not her uncle will excuse his absence. But as she turns her face away from him, although she does her very best to get a hold on herself, there's a tremble in her voice.

"Oh. Okay."

I'm about to cry, she realizes, horrified. What's wrong with me?

His arms wrap around her middle and, as he hides her face in her shoulder, she cannot stop the small hiccup of a sob that escapes her lips.

"Mika, hey, Mika. I know- I know, alright?" His hands lock around her." I know, I understand."

Panic is a cold wave that crashes over her, chill runs through his veins, through their bones.

''Maybe I'll call and-"

"No, no." She shakes her head, slipping from his arms; distancing herself from him leaves her aching all over but she does it anyway. It's unhealthy, even for soulmates to be so wrapped up in each other, but they got careless, they got too needy. "You should go, we-we can't act like nothing even matters anymore."

His brow furrows and he gulps and she knows which words he swallowed.

( _only you matter now, only this.)_

She wants to reach out, god knows she does. Wants to take his hands in hers and kiss him; nuzzle her face against his neck, curl inside his ribcage, lock herself in his heart. Let him hold her until she melts into him and they'll never be apart.

But it's not good for them and it's not possible anyway, so she takes a deep breath and says:

"Chinese tomorrow for dinner, what do you think about this idea?"

* * *

The morning comes too soon.

She didn't manage to doze off even for a few hours; laid with her eyes closed and breath even, emotions ripping her insides to shreds. She didn't let him hug her and thought that will make her body numb, that if she gets used to not touching him when he Is beside her, seeing him leave will be easier.

It's not; it hurts, physically hurts and she digs her fingernails into the flesh of her palms not to reach out to him, roots her feet in the floor not to run after him. He kisses her so gently that it's more like a shadow of a kiss than a real thing; maps her cheekbones with the tips of his fingers and walks backward through door to look at her as long as he can.

She swallows to get rid of the bitter taste in her mouth and manages a grimace resembling somewhat a smile:

"I'll be here when you come back."

He nods but he doesn't seem to believe her at all.

"Mikasa-"

"Go." –she waves her hand goodbye, praying not to tear up, praying for him to leave _before_ she tears up. "Go, don't be late. Levi-"

"Hates that, I know." He's still standing in the corridor, still looking at her and he's so anxious that it spills over. So she breaks herself a little inside and coaxes her body to cooperate; slows down her heartbeat, lets her hands hang loosely by her side, raises her head higher.

And so he relaxes too; even manages to send her his trademark boyish grin before stealing one more kiss – this one a little more proper, not just a paintbrush stroke- and turns away rapidly, running down the stairs fast as if he was afraid that as soon as he slows down he'll come back running to her.

Oh, she wishes he did. So bad.

Hours pass so lazily, she's almost afraid that clocks have all stopped working. And she's absolutely restless.

Goes out for a run, hoping to tire herself, but finds herself looking for his face in the crowd of unfamiliar ones. Tries to answer messages that accumulated on her phone and social media during the weekend and realizes that she has no idea what to tell all those people. Writes a short message to her coach to assure her that yes, she'll be back in training on Wednesday. Curls on the armchair for a minute or two only to jump up at the slightest of sounds, as easily spooked as Madeline. Picks up a book just to stare at the same page for half an hour.

By 2 P.M. she's equally anxious, frustrated with herself and dead tired.

So she picks up the phone and does the only thing she can think of.

"Annie? Hi, sorry for radio silence. I had a reason though."

Annie's usual blank voice is somehow less disinterested than normal.

"Better a good one, Ackerman."

Mikasa almost smiles. _You have no idea, girl._

* * *

Eren is pretty much sure that is the worst day of his entire life, but he doesn't really register anything that's happening around him so it might not be true.

His longing takes a form; it's a ball of pain in his chest, covered in thorns and making his lungs and heart bleed whenever he takes a breath. Usually he'd be sulking for being assigned to paperwork for the whole day, but today he thanks, all of the gods he knows for it; there's a white mist obscuring his vision so that even the easiest forms transform into a herculean tasks of bureaucracy, so he's scared to even think how his work in the field would present. It takes so much effort for him not to say fuck it all and run back to Mikasa like a stray dog begging for a little warmth that by lunch he is downright exhausted.

Four-fifths of his new team send him worried glances above their respective meals and the one fifth, his boss, the living legend, the man he admires more than probably anyone else in his life looks so disgusted with his current state that Eren is truly surprised he manages not to spontaneously combust under his burning glare.

All he thinks, all he feels, all he pretty much is is –

Mikasa, Mikasa, Mikasa, Mikasa.

His mind plays tricks on him, plasters her face on any girl that enters the office, forces his eyes to look for her even though the mind knows her location all too well. His knee is constantly twitching, bumping the cheap wood imitation of his desk and making his keyboard jump up and down. He has dark circles underneath his eyes that he's sure weren't there before. She's haunting him and he is, to put it bluntly, a mess.

And yet, he cannot manage to care, not when yet another torturous hour passes and he gets closer and closer to breaking free.

After he glances at the clock for the fifth time in two minutes and it's still 15:24, Petra – who seemed to gravitate more and more towards his desk as the day progressed- taps his shoulder and asks him, very slowly and kindly, is there any way she could help him, really?

He tears his gaze away from the digital numbers of the clock to look at her; amber eyes are wide open, concern written all over her face.

All that's ringing in his head is that he wishes he could look at another woman.

"I-I don't think so." He mumbles, looking down at his still twitching knee. "Or maybe- Petra, I'm sorry, could I drop out early today? Please?"

The desperation in his voice is so clear that even he grimaces a little. Petra bites her lip and opens her mouth and he just knows she's about to say that she's sorry but-

"Let him go."

Levi is standing back to them, seemingly deeply engrossed into the act of scribbling some notes on the whiteboard, but he is speaking so loudly and clearly that everyone in the office just drops their work for a second, exchanging surprised glances.

Levi is not exactly known for cutting his officers slack.

"Let him go, Rall, he's useless anyway."

Petra gapes at the back of Levi's head, mouth opened as a fish gasping for breath before shaking her head and patting Eren on the back gently.

"Go." She whispers softly and Eren can almost see the ghost of the smile on her lips. "Go, you idiot, before he changes his mind."

He doesn't need to be told twice; he's so happy he could kiss her, but there is another mouth belonging to another girl and waiting for him at home.

* * *

The only thing he does is ring the bell and suddenly she's all over him.

Arms wrapped around his neck, legs wrapped around his waist; she opens the door so violently that the sound echoes in the empty staircase and jumps into his waiting arms. And he's been running all the way there, driven by the fear that he somehow forgot the way (how could he forget the way, now that he knows it?) and so he's a little than more winded but, honestly, who cares about breathing anymore.

She kisses him with wild abandon nobody would suspect her of, almost livid in her raw desire. She's a mess of emotions, a tangled pile of electric cords in his hands; she sends nerves live-wiring beneath his skin.

They bump into furniture on the way to the bedroom and some small part of his brain registers it, sighs to itself about bruises that will inenviably bloom on his skin tomorrow. But he's got a handful of her and as he lowers his head down to press his lips to her neck and sucks on her pulse point she straight-up _moans_ ; this sound escapes her lips like a dirty secret and he swears he's gonna keep it… after he hears it again and again and again.

He nips on her collarbone, feeling her body shivering against his own, and she tugs on his shirt desperately, pulling him behind her until they both collapse on the mattress. His mouth curls into a smirk as he puts his weight on her, but then she spreads her legs, raises up her hips-

And before he can even notice, he's the one laying pinned underneath her and she's the one hanging above him; her breasts brushing his chest, heavy breaths rocking her body. Mikasa has her cheeks stained pink, there's saliva smeared on her chin and bite marks on her neck; he slowly raises his hand up and loops a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His palms cup her cheek face and her eyelids shut close.

Desire doesn't go away, neither does arousal; but as he looks at her – god. God bless.

It's like everything suddenly glows. There's unexplainable sweetness that didn't use to be there before; the strawberry red summer sun warming him up.

It's like somebody reached out and covered all of his emotions in gold, made them better, more complete. Kissing has never felt like this before. Making out has never felt like this before. He could've as well never touched a girl before.

So new, so fresh, like the air after the storm and still so familiar. She's his first time and the last time; the only one he'll ever want, the one he will never get enough of.

 _You woke me up, baby._

His other hand sneaks underneath her shirt, trails the line of her spine, caresses her back which arches under his touch.

"Eren." She still has her eyes closed, humming his name like a melody. "Eren."

She nuzzles her cheek against his hand, turns her head a bit for her lips to reach his skin and kiss him.

 _I adore you._ They think simultaneously, think with all of them _. I was so lonely without you._

He briefly wonders what it will feel like, to tug her top up and her bra down, to put his mouth on her breasts and make her moan again. To let her pull on his hair as he blows raspberries on her inner thights. He wants it all so badly, desires her body and her heart and her mind and her soul.

 _You already have it,_ she thinks to him and it sounds breathless even in his head.

His hands on her back press her down and she lets him; she leans and lets him kiss the remaining sense out of her until everything spins in front of her eyes and she forgets she's supposed to breathe.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling on them greedily and moving down and then her nails digging lightly into the nape of his neck-

 _Red, it's all red everywhere, that's all he sees. Red, sticky and stinking of metal; the stifling hotness which coats his skin in sweat and makes his eyes water._

 _"Eren!" she cries out, her hands reaching for him and he's running, running, blood buzzing in his ears and breath knocked out of his lungs at the fear twisting her features because Mikasa is brave, Mikasa has never been afraid of anything, Mikasa is untouchable, impossible to kill, stronger than all of them combined and yet-_

 _And yet._

 _"Eren!"_

 _She's so far._

 _So far away._

 _Something crunches underneath the soles of his boots, but he doesn't stop to check on whose corpse he stepped on._

 _Red is oozing from the cuts on her face; it looks as if she was crying blood. And he is stricken with the terrifying familiarity of this scene; of his mother's figure held by the gigantic hand and raised from the earth's surface. The sound of her spine splitting in half. Her blood falling down like a rain._

 _And him, helpless again._

 _He sinks his teeth into the palm of his hand again and again, and yet the lightning doesn't strike. There's no magic this time, no transformation; and there's no spark of impossible in Mikasa either, just a small, broken, tired girl who exhausted herself to the point of almost passing out, her blades shattered, her wings torn from her back._

 _"Mikasa!"_

 _Their eyes lock and her expression softens; the hand she held outstretched for him falls loose. To his horror, she looks at him with this bashful fondness … and that' when he realizes she has given up._

 _Her lips move, forming words which he cannot decipher because he's still so fucking, goddamn far away and he's screaming, still screaming for her, when her figure disappears in the gaping, dark hole of the titan's mouth._


	8. BABIE LATO

**BABIE LATO**

POLISH;

INDIAN SUMMER: A PERIOD OF SUNNY AND VERY WARM WEATHER IN THE AUTUMN

THE PERIOD DURING THE YEAR WHEN MANY SPIDERS' THREADS ARE HOVERING ( FLYING) IN THE AIR

 _I was a peach orchard once, I'm sure;_

 _You don't forget this kind of joy_

 _\- "Lives" from "This is how you survive" by Lana Rafaela_

* * *

There's just too much of everything around her; this abundance of sensations that her head doesn't know how to process. Bright colors of guests' clothes, vibrant flower garlands, gleaming jewels, the dizzying smell of the expensive species and slow-cooked food- all of that hurts her eyes and ears; it makes her weak and unsteady like a newborn fawn as she stands up on shaking legs. Her earrings are too heavy; they're swaying with each step and tapping on her skin like a metronome in her brother's teacher's office:

tick-tack.

 _The stone is smooth and cold and she focuses on that, narrows her senses down to the one sensation of coolness underneath the sole of her left feet. She stares straight down at the elaborate henna designs on her skin which speak of love and devotion and family. Her stomach clenches; she feels her erratic heartbeat almost in her throat._

 _Rajan's hands rest on her elbows, his body gentle but insistent as he pushes her forwards._

First step: to respect and to honor

 _Honor. Such a good word, a strong word, but she knows even a stronger one; worship. And worship was skin covered in honey, Amoli's fingers fulling on her hair, the smell of her body; wet and musky, deep like a sandalwood._

 _Worship was kneeling on the soft grass and having her best friend's legs wrapped around her neck, listening to her whispers and sighs._

 _And then kissing her knuckles goodbye and turning away to marry another._

Second step: to share another's joy and sorrow

 _Ever since she could remember, she has never smiled without Amoli around her. She has only ever cried on her shoulder. She doesn't even know how to feel when they're not together._

Third step: To trust and be loyal to each other

 _"_ _I love you" she was whispering and whispering and whispering through days and years, and Amoli always heard her. She heard her voice loud and clear, even when monkeys were screaming on the trees and the river was humming and the music was playing. She heard her and kept those words as close to her heart as she could, didn't let them escape, didn't let anyone else know._

Fourth step: To cultivate appreciation for knowledge, values, sacrifice, and service

 _Sacrifice._

 _What is a sacrifice, she thinks, as beads of sweat pearl on her forehead and drip down her back. What does it mean to serve?_

 _It means red wedding sari, it means bejeweled earrings and excited guests; it means seeing your beloved leaving you behind and being the one who leaves. For her, this word tastes bitter, like copper on one's tongue after biting it too many times._

Fifth step: To appreciate purity of emotions, love, family duties and spiritual growth

 _Every second stretches into a small eternity as they move in circle, Rajan and her. They are moving, the stone underneath her foot is rolling and she is weeping for help and nobody hears it._

Sixth step: To follow principles of Dharma

 _One more left._

 _I am so sorry, my love._

Seventh step: To nurture an eternal bond of friendship and love

 _I never wanted to leave you._

* * *

Some people never get their memories back. Most regain a few; the hello and goodbyes and weddings and first times, those striking moments which remained so imprinted that even an ocean of time couldn't wash them off. They are all invaluable assets to historians, even those smallest of details of theirs, the breadcrumbs of past in their possession. Soulmates make and break history, one way or another.

And there is a small percentage that recalls it all, that age thousands of years in the span of couple minutes. So of course, there are urban legends that surround this concept; of white hair on 20-something-years old heads and teeth falling out and wrinkles appearing out of thin air. And the madness that accompanies them.

But what almost everyone agrees on, somewhere in the middle between common magic and scientific research, is that it's always the first life that carves the deepest mark, that it is the first kiss and the first death that come back even if nothing else ever reappears in soulmates' memories.

As Eren lies on his belly on Mikasa's bed, with his face pressed to her chest and focusing on her heartbeat to get rid of ringing in his ears, he's fruitlessly trying to understand _why._ Why does he have to go through it again. Wasn't it enough to see the love of his life die once?

And she died more than once. She died and died and died over and over again and he could do nothing but watch.

He shivers violently, head to toe, his jaw clenching painfully and Mikasa rubs comforting circles on his shoulders, humming nonsenses under her breath, winded from sharing his pain and fear. She's tense too, confused and hurt and aching, and their closeness somehow doesn't help the way it's supposed to.

Because no matter how much he tries, he can erase this picture from his mind; her hand falling down loosely, her sad half-smile, her eyes becoming dull and lifeless.

"Eren." She says his name carefully, gently; her voice is not much louder than a whisper, not much louder than his thoughts.

"Eren, Eren, Eren." She repeats it like a litany, her hands resting on his cheeks and raising his head up until their eyes meet. "Eren, Eren."

Mikasa's face is as lovely as a face can be. With her high cheekbones and dark irises, with her ivory skin and smooth, black hair, she should be dressed in pearls and diamonds and put on paintings. A breathtaking beauty that can be cold and ruthless, but was not made for that.

No, her lips were carved for smiling; her eyes were put on her face just to stare at someone lovingly. There are a grace and agility of a lioness in this girl, but she is a lioness who will bare her fangs only if someone raises their hand at her offsprings.

Mikasa was designed to be a love embodied.

And to think that he saw her love and love and love, and he also saw how this love tears her apart – it just breaks him. It just kills him, this knowledge, this memory, the sight of her beautiful face smeared with blood and this devastating fondness, this open affection that she gave him in the last seconds of her life.

He doesn't remember it all, but he knows this one thing better than he knows his own name; no matter who they were or were they were, each and every time Mikasa gave and loved with all in her, even if it meant tearing her heart from her chest and presenting it to him in a golden box, tied with a pretty ribbon.

"Eren" her lips are cool against his forehead; she presses a kiss to his skin once, twice. "Please, come back to me."

There is a though at the root of his anguish, like a heartbeat, beating steadily underneath his skin _I don't, I don't deserve her, I'm never gonna deserve her_

Dark eyes closing, a scream torn from her chest as teeth sank into her hip.

 _I don't deserve you._

"Eren. Eren, please." She doesn't stop humming, she doesn't stop kissing his face. It's all so delicate, like butterflies' wings fluttering.

And then something blooms in his chest; a spark, a flame, and a fire. A fire that burns and burns, in scarlets and oranges and yellows; dances on his ribs, fills his lungs with smoke.

A girl who is a hurricane if crossed; a girl who is a sunny July morning if loved. With this beautiful face of hers and her gentle hands, nurturing but strong. Stronger than he has ever been. The strongest of all.

 _How long have you dreamed of this domestic bliss, tell me? How old is this image of white sheets dancing on the wind, the idyllic picture of children running around and rolling on the green grass? For how many centuries, darling?_

 _When did it begin? Was it when we first met, in that world so much more cruel than the one we live in now? How long are you carrying this hope in you?_

 _I'm gonna deserve you, I swear._

He blinks and looks at Mikasa - really looks to see her and not just to stare hopelessly, blinded by the light beaming from her. There are faint laughter lines around her mouth and little wrinkles in the corners of her eyes; her lashes are tangled; her lips - chapped. A small pimple reddens on her forehead, just below the hairline. The small details that make her a woman, not a painting or a marble statue.

She stares at him with hope in her eyes, with all this love and understanding ready for him to just take it and have it. Ready to save him over and over again, as many times as it will take.

"Mikasa." He says, watching as she lets out a relieved sigh and smile.

 _I'm gonna deserve you now. This time, we save each other._

He kisses her with his eyes opened, and the fire within him turns into a blooming rose bush; their thorns scraping his pain away, their petals as soft as her skin, as red as her blood that she once spilled for him.

* * *

There's something wonderfully mundane about the whole thing.

He gets this call from his friend and asks her if maybe the three of them could grab a dinner together and of course, she agrees, because _why not_? It's not like meeting Carla made her vary of meeting other people in Eren's life, after all. So she gives him a thumbs up and so he lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree and it makes her feel so light, so happy, so good.

She digs a black turtleneck and a pair of mom jeans from her closet and he wears a t-shirt and jeans; they both get ready in her bathroom, standing side-by-side in front of the mirror. He shaves; she does her make up. They try to fix each other's hair and fail miserably, end up kissing with her sitting on the bathroom counter, Mikasa stripped from her sweater and Eren giving her a hickey on a collarbone.

She could do this every day for decades and never get bored of it.

"Are you ever going to take this scarf back?" she jokingly asks, as he loops the red wool around her neck.

"I don't think so, it looks cuter on you." He shots back, leaning down to kiss her cheeks and making her giggle.

Looking at the top of Eren's head as he kneels down to tie the laces of her shoes, she wonders if this is what love is really about. Noticing someone. Paying attention. Being there for somebody without being asked.

Madeline quietly pads towards them and rubs against Eren's leg, meowing until he chuckles and drops the laces to scratch behind her ear. And then he looks up at Mikasa, smiles so gently, so kindly.

And she so she gives him her hand and he holds onto it as she pulls him up.

And then she knows for sure, yes, this is what love is really about.

* * *

Armin's … tall.

He's tall and skinny in a way teenage boys are, not 20-somethings; all knees and elbows, and not really sure what to do with all those limbs. He has blonde hair tied in a ponytail and pretty blue eyes, round as child's, which instantly makes Mikasa like him.

This good first impression is only deepened further on.

Because Armin turns out to be one of those people that are just impossible not to like; he's kind and polite, he asks all the right questions and somehow avoids interrogating her. He has an opinion about every subject under the sun and is so smart that it would be scary if he wasn't so damn enthusiastic about things. Eren told her he's brilliant, mentioned something about astrophysics, but it wasn't until she actually gets to ask him about his studies that she realized that this term meant "brilliant, like NASA level brilliant, like Ph.D. by 23 level" rather than just an ordinarily smart, hard-working student. When Armin talks about stars and supernovas and black holes and all of the other scientific stuff she doesn't even try to understand, his eyes shine so brightly that she thinks she could listen to him for forever, he just makes those things sound so fun and amazing.

He and Eren act around each other the way, she supposes, all best-friends-since-childhood do; they rarely even have to explicitly tell each other things. Most of the time, they communication seems to be based on mutual teasing, staring contests and subtly insulting each other in a way that's somehow not offensive at all, but very endearing instead. It's so fun, watching them, that for the most part, Mikasa is completely content with sipping her milkshake and holding Eren's hand under the table, her eyes jumping from one boy to another as if she was during a tennis match.

Somewhere half-way through the dinner, she indulges in the wonderful fantasy of introducing Annie to Armin and Eren and having double-dates together, and then Eren abruptly stops talking and sends her a glance which is just _pure wicked._

 _"_ Oh, how could I forget, thank you, Mika. Armin?" he asks innocently, the lop-sided grin already splitting his face.

" Hm?" Armin, for his part, looks a bit suspicious; he takes a bite of his burger and raises one eyebrow, waiting for Eren to elaborate.

" You know who's the bestie of my girl here?"

Mikasa turns a little pink; _stop blushing as if you were 15 just because he called you his girl, goddamn it –_ but Eren squeezes her hand lightly under the table and winks at her, so, of course, even more, blood rushes to her cheeks.

" I'll give you some clues; a minion, blonde hair, big nose, f _ucking otherworldly martial arts ski-"_

Armin's face is purple and he is chocking on his fry even before Eren can finish talking.

As the evening turns into the night, the one phrase comes back to her mind over and over again - to open a can of worms.

She used to like this saying a lot, mostly because it was so graphic; she always imagined a person with a disgusted expression on their face holding a can of Campbell tomato soup and watching as earthworms crawl out of it. As every country girl at heart she was never really afraid of insects, so she just thought of this picture as vaguely hilarious. Then, of course, the years passed and she learned what it really meant – to unpack something nasty, to start a chain reaction that leads to an unfortunate result.

When Mikasa laughs out loud with her head thrown back as Armin jumps in with yet another story about his and Eren's primary school shenanigans, she's constantly thinking about this phrase and how there should be some way to name the exact opposite phenomenon. To learn more and more about a person and simultaneously appreciate them more and more with each detail.

Meeting Armin and hearing about Eren from his perspective is not opening a can of worms; is raising the moss-covered stone to find a collection of shiny, colorful beetles, each more ornate than other, all of them together looking like an opened jewelry box. All she feels is wonder.

* * *

The second flashback that day is decidedly less exciting and excruciating than the first one.

It happens just as they come back to her flat when their cheeks and hands are still cold and he leaves her alone in the bedroom for a moment to make some tea.

When he comes back with a tray and two steaming cups on it, her lips are curved into a dreamy smile and she sighs here and then breathlessly and he just knows that whatever she's seeing – whatever she's recalling, really – it's good. Better than good.

And then the idea strikes him, because maybe, just maybe… not that he's sure it's even possible, but-

He sets the tray down on the fluffy carpet and pads to the bed to sit down next to her.

"Can you show me too?" he asks, unusually timid and she smiles at his curiosity, her eyes still closed.

"Sure." She whispers and blindly reaches for his hands, wraps her fingers around his. She takes a breath, then another, until they inhale and exhale in unison-

And hears his gasp when he feels it too; _August sun warming them up to the bone, the breeze carrying the scent of ripe peaches with it._

 _The way he licks the sweet juice from her chin, from her neck, his tongue diligently studying the hollow of her throat, making her squirm in his arms._

 _They're lying in the old barn; sunrays fall in through the creaks in between old wood panels, hay is harsh against his exposed skin and it stinks of horse shit a little but he does not care, not even a little. She's giggling uncontrollably, her hands in his hair and eyes shut closed._

 _And it's a weird feeling, because Eren is at two places at the same time, somehow_ ; both sitting on the soft duvet in Mikasa's bedroom and _rolling in the hay with her previous incarnation, back when her hair was long and brown and braided in two braids tied with blue ribbon. And he smells both horses and peaches and cotton and this scent that is so unmistakingly Mikasa, the one that he cannot properly describe but the one she apparently carried with her through the centuries._

It's something enthralling, experiencing this jump along with her. It makes it more real, somehow. Because it's different, just knowing she was there with him and seeing that; _seeing those beautiful dark gray eyes on the unfamiliar face and recognizing her still._

 _His previous incarnation sneaks one hand underneath her skirts, shivering when his fingers touch the smooth skin of her tight and Mikasa-now gasps in unison with Mikasa-then. Her nails dig in the skin of his palms and he can't help but smirk._

He doesn't know who they were, then. How their story played out and how it ended.

All he knows is that, once upon a time, on hot summer afternoon he was drinking peach juice from his soulmate's mouth, both of them drunk on happiness and with hay in their hair.

That it was a moment so perfect and they are so in love.

She 's still laughing against his lips when the vision fades, arms thrown around his neck and happy, so happy.

" You see?" she murmured, mouth-to-mouth with him . " It was not always doom and gloom for us."

 _Seconds of wonder_. Eren thinks, gently tugging the lose strands of hair behind her ears and taking her face in his hands to pull her closer and kiss her still-closed eyelids and forehead. Yes, whole years full of terror and a handful of beauty in all of that _and I might be crazy because I think the prize might be worth the pain._

* * *

Mikasa's steps are quiet and cat-like as she makes her way through the apartment. It's pitch dark, except for the electric orange light coming from the street outside, but she doesn't bother to turn on the lamps; she knows the layout well enough to not bump into anything.

Madeline sleeps soundly in her basket, making adorable little purr sounds without waking up when Mikasa gently scratches her behind one of the velvety ears. The kitchen tiles are bitingly cold against the soles of her feet as she pads to the sink and pours herself a glass of water. Without hesitation, she hops onto the countertop, letting her legs dangle from the edge and wiggling her toes to warm them up.

There are soft, woolen socks in the upper drawer of her dresser and she'll pull them on when she'll come back to bed but for now, she needs a moment just for herself.

This is a discovery both shocking and strangely anticipated; Mikasa is a solitary animal by nature. This newfound clinginess to Eren was slowly taking a toll on her and their brief separation was too painful and traumatic for her to try to enjoy solitude. But now, with him sleeping in the other room, she can just –be for a second or two.

She looks around the kitchen, satisfied with the clean countertops and pristine floor, with the orderly row of glass containers with herbs and rice inside them, with the absence of even a single crumb on the kitchen table.

That's exactly how her life was before she met Eren. Organized and compartmentalized, dived into categories and each section in a neat little ribbon-tied box of its own. There were family and friends, and gymnastics, and entertainment, and skating, and martial arts, and self-care. Everything in order.

And she almost smiles at this though because damn, look at her! Mikasa Ackerman, in her bed at 10 P.M. every night ever since she was fifteen, waking up with the sun to jog no matter how comfortable her pillow is and never, ever breaking her routines unless she absolutely has to.

Mikasa Ackerman, sitting on the kitchen counter at 2 a.m., a boy sleeping in her bed, training routine thrown out of the window, the world order put upside down. And all it took was a pair of pretty green eyes.

"Green eyes" she begins to hum quietly, swinging her legs from side to side – " Yeah, the spotlight shines upon you."

 _And how could anybody deny it…_ Whose song is that? Does she even know that song?

Eren is laying still when she comes back to bed; one hand underneath his cheek, lips slightly parted. Moonlight lovingly caresses his features, making them softer somehow, making him seem even more earnest than he is while awake. He is so very lovely, with his messed up brown hair that need a trim, dusted with silver. She could spend the entire night standing at the door and watching him sleep.

But she hops on the bed and curls beside him instead, pressing as close to him as it's physically possible; face pressed against the hollow of his throat, one leg over his, hand flat on his shoulder blade, tugging his body towards hers.

And just as she breaths in the smell of his skin and closes her eyes, he groans quietly and cups the back of her head with his hand, his fingers entwining in her hair.

"I came here with a load and it feels so much lighter, now I met you." His voice is hoarse, laced with sleep and gentle. She smiles, smiles wider than she has ever smiled.

His other hand appears on the small of her back but there is no electricity this time, it just feels so damn good that if she could, she would purr. This warm embrace melts her, leaves her defenseless.

Compartmentalized life, organized life.

Mikasa pours gasoline over all of the little boxes and lights a match.

" And honey you should know, that I could never go on without you" – they sing in unison, except they're not really singing; it comes out more like a sigh, like something that could escape from your lips when you lay down after long, hard day, when you're tired but satisfied.

Eren lowers his head down to lean his forehead on hers; he is still not fully awake, his eyes are half-lidded, his words breathy, dreamlike. He delicately raises her chin up, his thumb caressing her lower lip.

The tips of their noses meet halfway and Mikasa sets fire, fire, burning all that she wanted before this, before him. There are flames licking the inside her skull and yet she feels so infinitely calm, sure.

The song is called "Green Eyes". It's by Coldplay. Eren has it on his Spotify playlist, a private one labeled "night". He listens to it on the sleepless nights, when his mind is racing and his heart beats too fast and he just wants to stop for a moment.

 _I will bring calmness to your hurricane now, don't worry._

"Honey you are the rock, upon which I stand."

They breathe out; their lips suspended at this moment, an eye-blink away from meeting.

* * *

Author's Note: The concept for the first flashback - with the wedding, the stone and seven steps - is from my VERY limited knowledge of Hindu wedding traditions, so if I'm offending anyone or made some colossal mistakes in this segment PLEASE let me know so I could correct that! I'm Polish and all that I know is taken from the Internet, which is a wonderful, but an unreliable place to find information in.

Guys, I'M SO SORRY! This took me like a crazy amount of time and still, this chapter is kinda... meh. I feel like nothing really happens in it and I'm very dissatisfied but well. I was so tired of staring at it that I decided to just get it over with and post it. For those that still read this story and made it so far - thank you. You are the sole reason why I didn't abandon it yet. If you liked this chapter or there's anything else you want to say to me, please leave me a comment below, I live for them.


	9. IKIGAI

IKIGAI

JAPANESE; "A REASON FOR BEING", 'A THING THAT YOU LIVE FOR" – THE THING THAT GETS YOU OUT OF BED EACH MORNING

* * *

 _I think we deserve_

 _a soft epilogue, my love._

 _We are good people_

 _and we've suffered enough._

 _SEVENTY YEARS OF SLEEP # 4. NIKKA URSULA_

* * *

 _She's a shy girl, but she's also a quick learner and it doesn't take her very long to pick up the games that kids play on the narrow streets of Shinganshina. It's a completely different world here, such alien and strange for somebody who used to have daffodils and squirrels for friends before. The morning comes and all of the doors fly open as kids practically burst out of their homes to run around until their little legs get tired or the dinner is ready and their mothers usher them back to wash up dirt from their hands and faces._

 _Mikasa begins to participate in this ritual as well – Carla Jaeger never forgets to give her and Eren a piece of bread with honey and a kiss on the cheek before she waves to them as they disappear in the crowd. And while Eren and Armin usually prefer to do other things than play with neighbors' kids, the three of them sometimes join one of the small bands scattered in the district and spend an afternoon with them - and that's how Mikasa learns it all, this collection of games created when the lack of resources crashes with children's boredom and creativity. There's hide-and-seek and tag and hoola hop that requires a narrow, wooden ring that girls spin around their hips. One child chases others and taps their shoulders to turn into the chased one. Kids sit in circle, clap hands in intricate patterns and recite dirty rhymes; they use chalk and sticks to draw on the stones and dig in the soil; they jump on one leg and pretend that the ground is lava._

 _Sometimes smaller girls gawk at her eyes and nag her about her hair long enough that she lets them sit behind her cross-leggedand braid her black strands into an elaborate construction that ends up un-tangling halfway home. She would never admit that to Eren, but she likes this – likes feeling little, quick fingers on her scalp and listening to their excited chatter. Those girls are sweet and innocent and just the way she used to be, while she was living with her parents. And their dreams and wishes reflect that; they want to grow their hair long and beautiful, to have handsome husbands in the Military Police and big houses behind Wall Rose or even Sina, with crimson flowers blooming on the balcony and chubby, pink-cheeked babies._

 _And Mikasa can understand that._

 _Those girls (what are their names? Tina, Riza, Mirielle? Maritte? Marie? She can never remember) also teach her one more game, the one under "no boys allowed category" – the apple skin one._

 _Tina is sitting on an empty apple crate, a small knife looking wrong and weird in her plump hand. She keeps on cutting her fingers and cursing and when Mikasa asks her what she's doing, the girl raises her round, brown eyes at her and blinks in surprise;_

 _"_ _You don't know about the apple skin?"_

 _She doesn't and so they eagerly show her. They instruct her to peel the skin off an apple with a knife, but not to break the skin - as the peel has to be intact, long and spiral. Then they tell her to stand up and throw it behind her left shoulder, her left hand flat on her chest, above her heart._

 _"_ _And why am I supposed to do that?" she asks them, skeptical about the whole thing. It really sounds silly and she doesn't even wanna think about what Eren would say if he saw her standing on the street and throwing apple peels around._

 _And she does not want Eren to laugh at her. At all._

 _But the girls insist; they circle her like a swarm of little bees or chirping baby birds._

 _"_ _You'll see! The peel will make the shape of a letter-" "And the letter that it shows is a name-" "- It's not a name stupid, it's the first letter of a name-"_

 _"_ _\- of your future husband!" they end in unison, the three of them looking up at her with such a brightness and honesty written on their round faces that she just can't refuse them._

 _Not that it matters anyway – she doesn't need to throw any peels to know what will be the first letter of her future husband's name._

 _After all, she is also just a little girl, who also dreams of a husband, of a house, of flowers and of a green-eyed baby of her own._

* * *

"Yes." Historia nods her head solemnly after Mikasa stops talking. "I remember that. We were there too. Paradise Island, before the Second Eldian Uprising. Around mid-800s, I think?" the blonde rests her chin on the hand and stares off the distance.

They are both sitting on the plastic chairs in Historia's backyard, in the middle of the first "Summer Party" of the season, as Eren cryptically called those meetings when Mikasa asked him about them. The sprinklers have just turned on, making some guests shriek and scatter, trying to run away from the water – not an easy task, considering the place is packed with people. The smell of barbecue makes Mikasa salivate, Toto's Africa is blasting through the portable speakers that somebody brought and some brave individuals decided to dip in the pool, even though it's just May and not a particularly hot evening. She can hear Eren somewhere on her left side, playing a kind of rules-free version of soccer on the grass with his friends which seemingly involves a lot of screaming and, more often than not, multiple players ending up in a pile on the ground.

Historia sits on folded legs, with daisy chain on her head and loose strands of hair dancing around her face on the breeze like spider webs. So lost in her thoughts, she seems as dainty and fragile as possible. Mikasa tries hard to put together the fawn-like line of her neck and delicate collarbone with the nightmarish visions that would make her wake up covered in cold sweat more often than not lately; winged crests, flakes of gore spiraling in the air like gruesome cherry petals, cobblestones streets stinking of too much people. The world bathed in blood. Cruel. Unforgiving. Devoid of any beauty. And yet familiar, as odd as it is to find familiarity in something straight out of their high school history books.

Mikasa wonders how Historia made it through there. Was she as graceful and full of sweetness as she is now?

"This is where we first met." The girl adds quietly after a minute or two of silence, her eyes locked on Ymir's back as she is getting up from the grass. " But I don't like to think about it too much. To be honest, it was horrible. I never want to live so much longer than her again."

That Mikasa understands. There is not a worse thing than existing when the other one is gone. It is a torment that she would not wish on anyone, ever, no matter the time or place.

"So weird, isn't it? Us, talking about those times like it was last week. Feeling so ancient when we are so young." The corners of Historia's mouth go up slightly and she shakes her head. "Look at them, my god."

Connie slipped on the wet grass and all the players lay toppled again, one big tangle of limbs and curses and laughter. Eren catches her eyes and sends her a blazing smile, trying fruitlessly to wiggle from underneath Berthold.

800s. So old. And yet Mikasa doesn't think she has ever been younger than now, with her lips chapped and happiness bubbling inside her.

 _I'm hungry, I'm hungry for whatever comes next. –_ sings some guy through the speaker.

Historia giggles as Ymir keeps on tripping over Reiner's legs.

Sprinklers spray Mikasa's bare feet with cold water.

The sun colors the horizon pink and yellow and red and all of the brilliant shades in between.

Eren managed to stand up and lowers his hand down to help Sasha; there are sweat stains on his shirt and grass in his messy hair. If he was nearer, she could smell it all on him. The sweat and the grass and the happiness.

As far as she is, she doesn't hear his exact thoughts - just feels contentment, stretching between them like a golden cord or a silk ribbon.

"Yeah." She answers softly. " It is really strange."

* * *

 _What comes next?_ Mikasa remembers it used to plague her mind for some time, before she even met Eren. _Supposed I have a soulmate, how life even looks like, with a bond like that?_

She jumps higher, runs faster and spins tighter than ever, that's what happens. Once she would curse her muscles and limbs for weighting her down and working against her will, but now she feels so light that she's surprised she makes any sound walking at all. It suddenly feels s _o easy_ ; the sequences of movements, soft and smooth, crisp with no hesitation in them. She diligently pins her now-short hair in place, chalks her hands and faces each obstacle with no fear whatsoever. The steady flow of medals that follow her improvement make it look like as if she turned into Midas, painting everything gold with her touch alone. And while it all brings her a lot of joy and while praises that she hears from her coach and teammates and fans are not unwelcomed either, she knows well what makes her soar so high.

She knows now how it feels to be up, so that the surface of the Earth looks like a glorious oriental rug painted with sunlight and spread down her feet.

It shows in her movements, this joy. Even when she's walking, she goes through the motions as if she was dancing. She supposes that it's even more evident, while she's doing gymnastics. She used to think she was good, before, and there was a truth in that – she was born with a natural talent which was then honed with years and years of steel discipline and hard work. Before, she was flexible and strong and well-trained, but now, with her eyes wide opened and memories back, she is not just simply good – she is superb. She has this spark that shines so brightly in her, fueling each and every step. And the centuries past don't lie, it's evident now, clear as a day. She could never reach stars without Eren by her side. She was always at her best, when she was with him.

So she jumps higher, runs faster and spins tighter.

And it feels exactly like running on the roofs and jumping up and down, suspended in the air with steel lines of her 3DMG used to feel like.

* * *

"How many times did we lay just like that?" he asks her one night, his hot breath caressing the shell of her ear, his fingers idly tracing figures in between her shoulder blades, while she's still shivering, oversensitive and satisfied.

 _Countless_ she thinks. _Countless and more_

But something painful blooms in her chest, like a thorny bush tearing her heart into shreds.

" I don't think we had many occasions to do that." She answers honestly and he hums in agreement.

Not in the softly-lit room, not in a warm bed, not smelling like her peach-scented shower gel and each other. Not without scars spoiling their skins and with no mountains on their backs.

Never so calm. Never so sure, so careless.

* * *

He supposes that the funniest part is that he doesn't feel like anything changed at all, for the most part. Armin is still his best friend just as he used to be for as long as he can remember and his mother still smiles when his visits her every Saturday and brings her flowers. He still trains in his favorite gym, listens to his favorite bands and fails in saying "no" to his dog.

He's still the same person, basically.

Only suddenly everything is different. Only suddenly everything is easier and simpler and more bearable; only suddenly he's calmer and faster and more focused than ever before. This mess in his head quiet now. The twitching of his leg gone. It's like somebody took a sheet of sandpaper and dulled the sharp edges of the world so that they don't hurt him anymore.

Mikasa came into his life, fitting neatly in as if she has never been a stranger, as if there has always existed an empty place ready for her. She brought a series of small changes with her, that's true. But those changes feel more like a fresh, cool breeze from the fan during a humid afternoon than anything else. Like tiny snowflakes that just keep on falling until they cover everything in white and all he sees is her, her, her.

The Thursday game nights, Annie ruthless in Monopoly, Armin miles ahead all of them in Scrabble, Mikasa surprising everyone by her mad poker skills.

Sunday mornings, lazy and sweet; Mikasa in his arms from the dawn till dusk, making love until they both collapse curled around each other, sleepy and sated and so, so fucking happy.

Saturday afternoons, Mikasa and his mother working in the garden and laughing quietly, drinking lemonade and watching old movies with Audrey Hepburn on this ancient VHS player.

She came and reorganized pretty much everything and yet he cannot even remember how his life looked like without her.

* * *

July comes strangely unexpected, like a cat creeping on soft, soundless paws.

He closes the doors of the apartment behind him, with a bag of groceries in his hands and a blissful perspective of three full days without work in his mind. Tomorrow they're going to Levi and Petra's daughter christening and then … well, he has a keys to Mikasa's parent's summer house on the countryside in his pocket and a lot of great ideas how to spent all this time alone with her.

He doesn't bother to say hello; Miki is not home, he knew it before he opened the door. She should be here, but she's not – on the emotional level it feels like a very cold blow of AC right into his face and he tries to swallow this feeling before it overcomes him. She's probably out jogging or something anyway.

Instead dwelling on that, he focuses on the small things; packs fruits and vegetables into the fridge and hides Mikasa's favorite, absolutely sinfully unhealthy chocolate cereal in the upper shelf, where she needs a stool to reach. She begged him to do that; she kept on insisting that sometimes, before she can climb on the chair she changes her mind about eating them.

He, personally, never witnessed it, but whatever makes her sleep better at night.

The flat is not as white as it used to be before he moved in; there are splashes of color here and there, scattered on the furniture in form of his flannel shirts and Bumblebee's chewing toys. And the Bumblebee itself brings the element of destruction into this sea of serenity; right now, she may be snoring soundly on her pillow in the living room, but years and years of constant spoiling made Eren's pug a very hard roommate indeed and he never realized it until moving to Mikasa. More often than not she would run around the flat with this stripped yellow-and-black bandana around her neck and wreak havoc in her wake… to the constant displeasure of Madeline.

 _"_ _Well, these two are definitely not soulmates, that's for sure"_ crosses Eren's mind, as he flopps down on the sofa. He decides to kill some time by watching this video from two weeks ago, of Bumblebee cashing Madeline around Mikasa's ankles; his gorl was holding a salad bowl in her hands and looked half-irritated and half-amused, as if she was torn between yelling and laughing.

He loves this video; everyone at work has already seen it at least three times and Petra even more. Besides Levi of course, who seemed hell-bend on pretending that Eren is not as prominent in his niece's life as he is.

But as he is about to press play, the bell chimes loudly, waking Bee from her slumber. Narrowly avoiding stepping on his angry dog, Eren makes his way to the door, wondering silently who could be coming over at such weird hour without letting them know earlier. The only people he can think of are either his mom, which he highly doubts, or Armin and Annie, who are currently enjoying the cloudy English weather and the company of old books, and kindred nerdy, pale scholars during their trip to Oxford.

"Hello- Oh, hi Tori." He can feel the frown on his face smooth out as he sees a familiar blond figure standing behind the door.

"Hi, Eren." Chirps Historia Reiss, smiling like a little sunflower and raising up a foil clothing cover in her hands. " Is Mikasa home? I finished her christening dress."

"Nah. But come in, she should show up soon." He takes the hanger from her hands and waves his hand in a welcoming manner.

Historia and Mikasa's friendship is something nobody could predict or foresee, but when it clicked, it continued to work smoothly and without any glitches.

They found the connection in their respective relationships, Historia patiently guiding Mikasa by the hand through the uncharted territory, them sharing stories of their past lives and current connections, a tangle web of centuries of trauma that they had to work through and could never fully resolve with their respective partners.

Sometimes Eren wishes he remembered more – that he remembered as much as Miki at least, so that they could share this burden together. But for all her eagerness to give him all of her, this is the one part that Mikasa doesn't let go of easily. Surely, she happily drags him along if she has something nice for him to see, but besides that, she keeps all that she sees and knows and suspects to herself. And he doesn't want to pressure her to open up.

But sometimes Mikasa would go awfully quiet and so awfully sad. Tears pooling in her eyes she would bite on her lip hard enough to draw blood and shiver in his arms for hours, sweating with cold sweat and making him so, so scared. And still, she refuses to talk about, clams up when she asks.

"What's in the past, stays in the pasts." She simply says, not looking at him and biting on her nails absent-mindedly.

 _It's not if it still haunts you._ – he wants to scream, but the words got stuck somewhere in his throat. Maybe it's the same with her; or maybe she just wants to protect her, in the only way she can.

Either way, he us beyond glad she has but somebody that can help her somehow compartmentalize it all.

Historia quietly pads into the apartment, bursting into laughter at the sight of agitated pug spinning nervous circles on the floor.

"Damn, your dog has some issues, Eren."

" You can only imagine." He sighs heavily, picking Bee up to rub behind her ears. " Hi girl, won't you just-"

Just like that, everything goes quiet.

There is no sound.

No light, no movement, nothing.

Just coldness spreading through his body, chilling each and every cell of his body.

Just pain, so strong that it doesn't even seem like a pain at all; it is incomparable to anything he has ever felt. Broken leg? Nothing. A concussion? A walk in the park. That time when he fell down the stairs and injured his spine? A nap on the feathery bed.

Pain exploding within him, taking his breath away, making his heart stop.

Mikasa,

Mikasa,

Mikasa.

"Eren? Eren!" Historia on her knees next to him on the floor, Bee barking again, the coolness of the wood underneath his palms-

Red car speeding on red light, red pooling on the concrete, Mikasa's red iPod Mini shattered into tiny, little pieces.

"Eren." She whispers, eyes desperately opened, sun so bright above her. "Eren."

* * *

He doesn't believe in god. Never has, as far as he remembers.

"Take the sun away." he whispers, lips brushing cool wood of his mother's worn-out rosary. – "Take the sun and and the moon and all of the stars, just- "

His voice breaks in half; ugly sob escaping from his mouth before he can stop it. It's so, so cold.

" Just bring her back to me."

There is a lifeline that stretches between them, red and infinite and beyond a crowded waiting room on the Intensive Care; a lifeline that nobody else sitting on those ugly orange chairs can see. But he can. And he will hold onto it, as tightly as possible.

And pull her back.

* * *

There is a memory that keeps on coming back to her over and over again. Eren ahead of her on the mountain side; his right hand holding onto a metal chain and left one outstretched towards her. He doesn't even have to turn away to see her slipping on the ice-covered stones. He somehow knows, even though the wind is too loud for him to hear her quiet gasp or the sound that the soles of her boots make.

His hand shots and catches her wrist before she can even begin to fall, before the line that ties their waists together even begins to tighten; he pulls her upright strongly, steading her on a slippery slope.

Wordless support, wordless trust.

 _Thank you._ She thinks. _Thank you._

The image of his hand outstretched. He has always looked ahead and trusted her to watch his back. But he has never abandoned her either, never forgot she was there behind him, even when she though he did.

She has a lot of time to think, is this sea of whiteness where she floats. Without any weight to carry, her thoughts flow lazily, one image after another. Some of them would normally make her heart ache, or even cry. But now she is glad they're there; even the bad, the ugly. She doesn't know that she would still be there if it wasn't for the anchor they form. Maybe she would wander off to far to even make it back.

But with this goddamn, piercing _I have always hated you, Mikasa_ echoing in her ears on repeat, it is impossible to let go.

It doesn't matter that he didn't mean it. It doesn't matter that it was thousands of years away. Some wounds remain open for forever and that is one of them, still open and bleeding all over everything. She would laugh if it could _even when you're hurting me, you're saving me._

So, against all she latches onto all that pain and heartbreak and reaches out her hand; searches through the nothingness for hours and hours until her fingers find it – the string, taunt and so, so warm.

Mikasa grabs onto it and holds on for what simultaneously feels like a fragment of a second and forever. Blinded and deaf, she holds on until her senses come back, one by one; until she can feel warmth of the sun of her skin and biting stench of antiseptics. Until she opens her eyes and sees him again, silent and grief-stricken and sitting next to her hospital bed, holding her hand.

She blinks, once, twice; watches as big, fat tears fall down his cheeks as he presses his forehead to her hand, his whole body shaking with relief that washes over both of them. She is too weak to do anything else but look at him, to keep her eyes opened and blink. But maybe that's enough.

* * *

"There you are, honey." Coos Carla, leaning down and putting a cup of green tea in Mikasa's shaky hands.

It might be hot outside, but surrounded by hospital walls Mikasa feels very cold and quite small, really, so she will take every comfort she can have. She wills the corners of her mouth to raise a little and takes a sip, hot liquid burning the roof of her mouth.

"Thank you."

"No problem, darling."

All those pet names, thrown on her like a blanket covering her useless legs. She wishes she could ask everyone to stop – Carla, her mom, her dad, her friends – to stop hovering over her, but it simply won't do. They would listen and genuinely try to stop, but she still would see it in their eyes. All the worry.

For now, her only solace is Annie with her own brand of harsh love that involved passive-aggressive remarks like "Will you stand up finally?" which makes other people present gasp. But Mikasa indeed, wants to stand up very much.

After Carla leaves, Eren appears; his steps echoing in her ears long before the doors open and he enters her room.

With a sight, he plops down on her bed, but she refuses to look at him. Still sitting on a wheelchair, she stares out of the window; what a beautiful day, sunny, not a cloud of the sky. Her whole body itches; in irritation, she forcefully sets down the teacup on the table and spills some tea in process.

"Miki."

From her position, she can almost see green grass of the lawn next to the parking. She would jog there sometimes, passing the hospital, the parking and the lawn, not stopping to rest for she hardly ever needed to. How weird it is, to miss the stretch of her muscles and sweat dripping down her back.

Warm hand closes over hers.

"Miki."

Eren's kneeling on the floor next to her, his eyes big and pleading.

"Why are you so angry?"

 _We should be out there,_ she thinks, desperately and against herself, _on Historia's summer party, in my parents' country house. Not here._

So much was stolen from them already. All those times where they met only to be torn apart, all this tragedy following them wherever they went. She is just so done with it.

 _Damn, Mikasa._ His voice in her head is so infinitely sweet, almost dripping in honey. He gently brushes hair away from her face and leans his forehead on hers. _This? This is nothing compared to what we've been through. There will be other summers._

There will be other summers.

She closes her eyes, trying to forget about the sun spilling through the window and focus on his voice on the promise ringing in them.

 _Really?_

He chuckles quietly.

 _Yeah, really._

Her memories are subjective, but they don't lie. Presented with the choice wheatear or not to trust Eren, all the Mikasas would always choose the former, without fail.

* * *

Their days become very long now, with the seasons passing behind the windows of their apartment like in kaleidoscope; summer in full bloom and then autumn, radiant in golds and scarlets. And winter again, the two of them cozy in their little microcosm lit with sweet-smelling candles.

Mikasa learns how to sit again and then how to walk again. It's an excruciating process, more often than not involving a meeting with the plush carpets that now cover the entirety of the floors in the flat. And although Eren would keep her from falling if she let him, she prefers to do it a hard way. By that, she can at least feel like in those old good times, as if she was covered in sweat and exhausted after a hard training and not after taking a few shaky steps.

But it all passes like seasons; soon enough she walks again and then jogs, faster and faster, Eren always glued to her side, his silent prescience so conforming that it almost makes it up for all the lost dreams that she had to abandon. She thinks a lot about it, how it felt to fly; but at least she can still curl up in his arms and he can kiss her neck and it's different but it's good. So good.

Snow falls and then melts; spring comes again, brilliant and fresh. By that time, she is already working out with a jumping rope again, drops by the neighboring dance studio whenever she can. There is a white dress hidden somewhere at the back of her closet; one beautiful mess of silk and lace crafted with Historia's meticulous hands. The dress is waiting for the right occasions, but Mikasa has stopped waiting a long time ago.

Life is good when doesn't need crunches or Eren's arms to stand up. Life is good when she can actually sneak up on him and put her cold hands underneath his shirt when he's cooking, making him jump and scream _jesus Mikasa, go wear a sweater or something._ Life is good when he doesn't have to pick her up from the wheelchair and carry her to bed. Life is good with her new job and old friends and Annie and Armin standing underneath flowery arch and smiling like dorks.

Even after she met Eren, she was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But know she knows for sure, that even when it drops – it is not gonna be the hardest thing she has ever been through, not even close. And that life will always be good, as long as he will hold onto her, as long as he will keep her centered.

* * *

"Soulmates… why didn't you like the idea?"

"I don't really know. It always seemed so limited to me, like, why am I supposed to just be with this one person because we used to be together a couple of times before in span of centuries? I didn't enjoy somebody dictating me how to live my life, I guess."

"You're are such a rebel, Miki."

"Oh, shut up. Tell me about you. What made you okay with that?"

" Well. You know, when people find their partners, they tend to look at certain things. Like money and race, and gender, and interests and all of that. We don't really tend to pair up with people who are very different from us. But the notion of soulmates… it just shows that it's all bullshit. It doesn't matter at all. When you really love somebody, all of those things are just so insignificant. That always sounded kinda beautiful for me, that it's your heart that chooses this person time and time again, not your head. "

Maybe he is right. She doesn't know; she doesn't care. All she knows is that everything before him seems now like a soft, slow build-up and being with him is a beautiful crescendo; a moment when the music drags you under, overwhelms you.

 _Give me all your love now, cause for all we know, we might be dead by tomorrow._

One headphone in his ear, one in hers; hands linked and eyes closed, they sit in an empty train, talking without barely opening their mouths.

 _Even if we're dead tomorrow, I'll find you again, Miki._

 _I'll find you again and I'll love you again, Eren._

Ugly and beautiful, all together. She doesn't think that this crescendo will ever really end.

* * *

A _s if the heavy slope of my shoulders_

 _doesn't write a hundred paragraphs._

 _As if the way I look at you_

 _doesn't write the singular ending._

 _You are my epilogue,_

 _my prologue,_

 _and every chapter that exists in between._

 _Everybody, sit down._

 _I have a story to tell."_

 _\- Stories. Seventy Years of Sleep, nikka_ ursula _(n.t)_

* * *

Author's Note: to everyone who has read this story and left reviews/likes/follows - thank you so much. It's been a wonderful journey, writing this fic. I hope you all had as much fun as I did, spending some time with our dorks and watching as their well-deserved happy ending unfolds.


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